


Five Stages of Something

by FlamingPancakes



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kid Vanya, Medical Experimentation, Since thats not a tag yet, Tags will be a mess, inappropriate use of pills, warning, we got some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 69,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27882830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlamingPancakes/pseuds/FlamingPancakes
Summary: Discovery is a slow process. The unknown is a risky voyage in front of her. Home is a familiar background behind her. That's how it has always been for as long as Vanya has known- except now, she's drowning. It's hard to understand why, especially when you're as closed off and timid and Vanya is. Especially when all you've ever known was in a house full of emotionally stunted siblings and a harsh, distant father.ORThe 5 stages of which Vanya finally begins to learn something new. Things change and life goes on. People disappear and the world moves on, no matter how much you want to go back to the way things were before.Only some things don't change, they just... were.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves, Vanya Hargreeves & The Hargreeves
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um... I'm not sure what the heck this is.
> 
> I just started writing one day and, well, here we are.
> 
> I never expected to write this, especially something so long when I'm already writing something else. But here we are, I guess.
> 
> ALSO, QUICK WARNING: 
> 
> There is an increasing use of medication in this chapter, one that gets worse as the chapter goes on. 
> 
> I apologize for not adding a warning earlier. I hadn't realized how graphic some of my writing was getting until I started to read my writing again. 
> 
> So, just as a warning, there is decreasing mental health and bad prescription use in this chapter.
> 
> To be honest, this was something as spontaneous as the writing and I wish you luck in, well, whatever it is my brain wrote up. It hasn't been the greatest for a few months, but it had enough brain power to write this so... good luck.

The wooden violin was sturdy under her hand, the slim bow grasped in her other. It’s light brown color, once a deep brown, was now faded from the constant elements of time and age. Even now her fingers clutched the bow staff with a meek strength, the sweat seeping out of her hands loosening her grip. 

And they also hurt. A lot.

Her tendons ached with every adjustment her fingers made, curled around the frog of her bow. And if sweat wasn’t already an issue, she could feel the unconscious trembles beginning to overtake her hands. In the back of her mind, something whispered _ ‘Don’t mess up, don't mess up, don't mess up-’ _ It was a tireless mantra she repeated over and over as she tightened her weakening grip.

It only caused her fingers to slip ever so slightly. The trembling was getting worse. The pain festering in the palms of her hands was akin to stabbing needles. It dug deep into her small bones like a dog to dirt. Sinking into her arms like a sickness.

Her grip was slipping. The throbbing was getting worse. Her calluses, rough and new on her fingers, were tender and red. It hurt and every adjustment of her hand caused something terrible to jolt the hypersensitive pads on her fingers.

It was getting harder to keep her elbows up. Her back straight. Her head raised and chin lifted up.

It hurt to stay so still and formal, and she wished she could just take a break for a second. Let her shoulder sag, her arms swing by her side, and her head to droop downwards- but she couldn't. Not with Dad watching.

Never with him watching.

The melody, thankfully, didn’t waver to the pain in her hands, back, neck, arms- everywhere. It was on tempo and melodious and she could feel the vibrations traveling through the violin despite the shakiness in her fingers. Fingers, while aching, that couldn't pause as she pressed them onto the rough strings of the violin.

Her father had given her Phantom of the Opera as a test for her abilities and she didn't want to disappoint him. When she’d asked him all those years ago- her heart had been racing and her palms sweaty and she had been so nervous and excited and hopeful- to learn, he’d said yes.

“Someone might as well get some use out of it,” Her father had told her, never looking up from a book he’d been reading- or maybe reviewing some old research. She wasn’t sure, too busy brushing her fingertips against the smooth shell, the thin strings, and the cold tuning keys. She was too busy marveling at how beautiful the instrument was. Though she's sure even if she had been paying attention, she still wouldn't have dared to open her mouth. While her father’s attention was a rarity to have, it was another thing to receive it.

She’d always known from a young age that her dad was a stern man; you could see it in the sharpness in his eyebrows, the tight frown he wore on the daily, and the cold gaze in his eyes. Klaus had compared them ice once.  _ ‘God, I hope we never inherit his cold eyes,’ _ She heard him whisper to Ben one night before bed.  _ ‘I already see the dead. I don't want to look in a mirror and see more.’ _

Which was true honest, but Vanya wasn’t afraid of his eyes. No, it was the disappointing words uttered by his constant frown. Words-  _ ‘Back straight, Number Seven. Having good posture and a firm stature is a key function in learning an instrument as intricate as the violin' _ \- that ghosted reminders of poise into the small of her back. Words –  _ ‘Keep your fingers firmly on the bowstring and hold it there. Don’t loosen up even if your hand begins to ache. Pain is a part of life, and if you ever want to be as accomplished as your siblings, then familiarize yourself with it least it lead to failure.’ _ \- that kept her trembling, sweaty fingers gripping the bow staff. Words –  _ ‘Your vibrato was atrocious. I surely hope you’ve been practicing. Play it again, Number Seven.’ _ \- that reminded her time and time again how nothing she did was ever good enough.

Words that replayed over and over again.

Play it again.

And again.

And again.

Her fingers shook. Her palms ached. Her grip, shaky and slippery, loosened. The bow staff quivered under her grip.

The note rang out sharply in the quietness of the living room.

The air, once still and light, grew stale. The statues and endless nicknacks decorating empty surfaces seemed to bore their lifeless eyes into her. Her siblings, their voices distant but still audible even though they were a floor below her, faded away to melt into the tense silence enveloping the room. A tense silence she knew was born from the small mistake she'd made.

_ Bang! _

Her father's notebook slammed shut. She heard him stand up, a quick fluid motion in the quiet living room, and her eyes found themselves drawn to the floor. She was both prepared for the inevitable consequence and dreading the ever-present disappointment in his eyes. Brown hair spilled over her shoulders, her bangs partially covering her sight. She lowered her violin from her chin and let her other, occupied hand fall to her side.

Her grip on her bow staff was loose now and she could already feel the lessening ache in her hands, arms, and back. It made her want to sigh in relief, but she wouldn't dare do that with her father nearby. Still, she was glad to not be playing at the moment, even if for only a second.

She heard the telltale sounds of rustling fabric, the metallic tinge of a monocle as her father straightened up. Her hands were still trembling, still shaking, and the urge to move her fingers was strong. In fact, she thought- for a split second- about the possibility that maybe her father would just... dismiss her. Sure, there would be some form of rebuttal, and a remark about more important things to use his time on. It was quickly shot down though, as the seconds ticked on little by little. She could feel her father’s cold eyes on her and she holds her instrument with trembling hands. She already knew what was coming- the bitter disappointment.

It was a chilly sensation and one she was used to, despite it never really landing on her very often. restaurant

Most of the time, Klaus would be subject to that icy stare. Usually at dinner time or at breakfast- or both, if her brother was ballsey enough. Which was usually the case. To be honest, she wasn't sure how Klaus could stand it. Her father never really paid too much attention to Vanya, but when he did, it wasn't good. 

She wondered how he dealt with it. She wondered how her other siblings dealt with it. She wondered if they ever got into trouble like Klaus or if they ever made a mistake like Vanya. Well, she's sure Allison never got in trouble; she was good at everything, and Dad always seemed less irritated with her than the others. Luther... well, she hasn't seen him much; he was Number One and Dad said he was going to be the leader of the Umbrella Academy one day soon, so he had to train. A lot. So it's safe to say she never really saw much of him. Diego... well, she saw him more than Luther, but she wasn't always sure what to say to him. He always seemed upset and angry whenever she saw him and, well, she'd rather not get snapped at for saying hello. Again.

Either way, it was safe to say her siblings were unfamiliar territory, despite living in the same house for all of their lives and it was always them that had all their father's attention. 

It seemed like a dream to have their father’s sole attention for once; to have someone pay attention to her when others usually didn't. She used to think having someone glance twice at her would be nice. But the idea of it being a reality soured after she took up violin lessons. 

She hasn't lifted her head up yet, eyes trained on the floor, but she can feel the frigid tension hanging in the room. A shiver runs down her spine as she feels the iciness of his eyes seep over into the air, as cold as snow and as severe as a storm.

She hears his lecture before he speaks. She already knows what he’s going to say; she's heard it enough. 

“Number Seven, have you been practicing?” Her father asks. No, demands because asking means a voluntary answer and her nod feels anything but. So much so that she immediately hunches in onto herself, shoulders rising to touch her ears and fingers clutching the violin in her hands in a death grip. It makes the ache come back again.

“Yes… Sir.” She tries to say- clearly and confidently- but it tumbles out soft and meek; mumbled and barely audible. She had been practicing. She even had a schedule.

At 7 a.m., she would wake up for breakfast. Punctuality was something their father valued and had been instilled into her since she was little. To arrive downstairs at the sound of Grace's voice late meant failure on your part and a morning lecture on another.

Then from 8 a.m. to two, she had her morning lessons with Grace. Maths, Science, History, Language Arts, and Foreign Languages- all in that order. 

_ (And if she were quiet enough in her lessons, she could hear the yells and thuds from her sibling's training sessions just a floor above her.) _

After that was usually the time her siblings were called to their own afternoon lessons, while she was instructed to do her assignments in the privacy of her bedroom. That was usually, since missions were called upon in random intervals of the day.

And she was left behind, listening from her bedroom as the loudness of the house slowly dripped away to an eerie silence. No footfalls of a frantic Deigo lagging behind. No bickering from Allison and Klaus about who’s eyeliner belonged to who. No fluttering nervousness from Ben- _ “Come on, guys. We really shouldn’t keep Dad waiting-“ _ \- to Luther’s booming yell as he tried to rally everyone together-  _ “Let’s go, guys! Dad says we have a mission! Hurry it up!”  _ Followed by an annoyed “ _ You hurry it up, asshole!”  _ from Deigo and even more stomps running across the hallways.

Then, as tumultuous and sudden as the chaos was, it all went silent. That’s when she would play and play and play until they came back hours later, exhausted and tired.

_ (That’s when she’d stop playing, hands aching and arms trembling. Exhausted and tired just like her siblings.  _

_ And if she daydreamed long enough, she'd imagine what it was like to be a part of the Umbrella Academy even if though they were the ones fighting out there and she was here. Always here.) _

Well, Pogo and Mom were here, but they were usually too occupied with other things to ever listen to her play.

That’s why her father’s evaluations were both a blessing and a curse; a curse because, well, right now and blessing because someone was finally listening to her and no one had done that since…

There’s a  _ clank _ as her father sets his pen down. It’s an old vintage ink pen, one her father rarely puts down when in anyone’s company.

Sign two of his disappointment. The first was closing the maroon notebook he never let shut.

Then, after the quiet settles back down again, he hums. It’s low and direct.

Sign three.

And she knows what happens next. She always knows what to expect next.

That doesn't make it any easier to hear, nonetheless.

“Well,” He begins. “Clearly not enough. Phantom of the Opera is a classic among the sophisticated, a musical piece that many only have the chance to hear in their lifetime. Usually, it's a lovely piece to be able to hear.” He pauses and Vanya tenses as she listens to his feet clamber on the mahogany floor. She can feel his stare on her. She keeps hers trained on the ground. Her shoes. Anything but his eyes

“Usually." Her father drawls out slowly, deliberately. "Your performance, on the other hand, blatantly shows the lack of skill you clearly don't have in possess after your supposed hours of practice- it's especially clear in the incompetence of your mere sound. The tuning of your instrument was unacceptable to the point where even a deaf dog could hear the sharpness of your notes.”

She listens, silent, as his lecture pauses. 

She knows well enough that he has more to say. More to say about her performance, more to dissect about her ineptitude. More to say about her. So she listens, quiet and silent, because that's all she's ever done and will ever do. 

_ (It doesn't stop the shame creeping up inside her nor the increasing shakiness afflicting hr hands. Doesn't stop her grip on her violin from tightening or the strings of her bow staff to bend under her fingers.) _

He’s standing in front of her now, only a few feet away. Though it doesn't matter how close or how far of a distance he stands, his disappointment is as clear as glass and as potent as rotten garbage. “I expect better from you, Number Seven, despite your novice status at playing.” She bits her lip at his words and hopes that maybe he will have nothing else to say. But she knows by now that if anyone up there was going to help her, they would have answered her prayers by now. 

Why were her siblings born to be so extraordinary and not her? Why didn't she have powers? What was special about her? 

_ (When was Five coming back-) _

But she knows by now that asking the sky for answers is equivalent to the clouds raining cats and dogs. 

So she waits there, futilely ready for the scorn his words will surely bring. But that's another impossibility- she's never prepared. 

There's a nudge in her hand, a sudden breeze cooling the sweat on her palms, and Vanya's head whips up to see her father- when had he gotten so close- fiddling away at the metal pegs.

“Your siblings were born naturally gifted, but you are being given the opportunity to grow your gift. The violin is a respectful instrument to learn. It requires finesse, poise, and discipline. I had hoped you would possess such talents, but it's clear today how much you lack. A shame in and of itself, to gamble away such an opportunity. Now, I expect your next performance to be utter perfection. If you can't handle playing a piece such as this one, I dare not think of the potential you could grow into if you keep going at this rate.”

And with that, he shoves the instrument into her still-shaking hands, sits down on his armchair, and picks up his pen and notebook. He doesn't look at her again as he opens it again and writes.

She breathes, in and out, as she picks up her violin again. Her hands twitch as she unclenches her tight grip on the bow staff and the trembles she still feels makes something panicked and sharp stab her chest. It twists and turns in her chest the same way her father’s words had. Something warm crinkles on the edge of her eyes and she blinks hastily to will the ache to go away.

She wants to go to her room. She wants to drop her violet. Wants to watch it break and crumble and crack. Wants to run. Wants to cry. Wants to do both. But most importantly…

_ I expect better from you, Number Seven, despite your novice status at playing. _

But she doesn’t want to play. She doesn't want to pick up her violin. She doesn’t want to feel the ache in her hands- under her skin and in her nerves and engraved in her very bones. She doesn’t want to feel the notes vibrate and echo through the tremors in her fingers. She doesn’t want to hear the melody shrill in her ear. She doesn't want to feel the hard rubber chinrest underneath her chin nor the sleekness of the bow staff in her other hand. She doesn't want to feel the sweat coating her palms. She doesn't want to feel the ache in her back and more than anything, she wants to look down at the polished floorboards and let her curtain of hair slip past her shoulders and cover her eyes. She wants to hide. 

She wants and wants and wants.

But then her father looks up, pen in hand, and says plainly: “Well, Number Seven?”

Her hands shake. Her chest aches. Her vision wobbles. Her throat is tight.

She picks up the violin.

The solid, tough material of the chinrest settles uncomfortably underneath her chin. She lifts up her bowstring and rests it against the strings of her violin, with muscle memory being the only reason keeping her elbow straight and in proper form. She stares at the empty space on the far wall and tries to imagine the wood like a sheet of paper printed with notes she knows as intimately as her bedroom in the dark.

She readies to play.

_ (Her fingers tremble. Her neck feels too stiff. She's been standing for two hours now and her feet hurt.) _

She lets the first note ring out into the silent room, her siblings chatter fading away as the note takes over. It sounds melodious.

_ (It sounds sharp-too sharp. It sounds flat- too flat. It sounds awful, like the ache in her palms, the shakiness in her arms, the stiffness in her legs, and the sting in her eyes.) _

She lets the note ring out, lets it float in the air. And then, she begins to play. The imaginary music sheet on the wall comes to life as she glides the bow staff along with the song, note by note, and-

“Sir,” Pogo’s voice softly crashes into the melody and Vanya stumbles to a stop at the sound of his voice. Almost immediately, Vanya’s shoulders slump. The violin loosens in her grasp as she sags in silent relief.

She glances over to see the chimpanzee offer a small note to her father. Her father never looks up as he plucks the note from the chimp’s hand and reads.

And reads.

And reads.

And reads.

And then, there’s a crease in his eyebrows.

Vanya’s not sure what the note says, but she doesn't think it's anything good.

“Hm,” He hums lowly, a different sound he made in reaction to her performance earlier. And before she knows it, he’s standing up and packing up his notebook. His old vintage pen is tucked into his coat pocket as he settles his notebook into the crook of his elbow.

Then, without any warning, he turns around.

Just like that.

_ (Just like always. There is no goodbye. No dismissal. No commands to leave. It’s just his attention one moment, and forgotten the next.) _

Warmth prickles in the corner of her eyes. She wants to cry, she realizes. And she doesn’t know why.

Her father had been right; he was always right. Her performance had been less than stellar. She fumbled in the intro and her lead in was shaky at best. Her vibrato for her whole notes was barely there. Not to mention her out-of-tune instrument; it was her fault for being so careless but she had woken up late and she almost forgot her pill bottle that morning and Dad was always saying how important it was to take them. But still, she should have known better than to play without checking her sound- had known. And on the day of her performance nonetheless.

She wonders, for the briefest of moments, if any of her other siblings could play something exceptional. They were, after all, destined to save the world, as her father would say.

_ Your siblings were born naturally gifted, but you are being given the opportunity to grow your talents. _

_ I had hoped you would possess such talents, but it's clear today how much you lack. _

Her dad was right. He always was. She didn't do good enough today. She was never good enough.

‘ _ 'Allison would have played it better,’ _ She thinks, something fuming rising in her chest.  _ 'She was always good at everything. Much better than someone as talentless and ordinary as you.'  _ A funny sensation of ice and fire erupts inside her and Vanya, for a split second, is flabbergasted by the overwhelmingness of this feeling. It's odd and sudden, and overall, unfamiliar. She's not used to feeling bouts of intense emotions; the pills her father gives her make her feel sleepy usually. But this feeling... it feels more... awake. More... angry.

Anger.

_ Huh _ . She blinks, the tang of bitterness and disappointment a potent aftertaste on her tongue. Her hands are still shaking, but she finds it isn't from her anxiety getting the better of her. 

Hazily, she doesn't remember the last time she felt this angry. She doesn't remember the last time she felt so strongly before. Maybe it was before her father put her on a prescription, but she's not sure. Her medication helped steer away most of the nerves and unease she felt on a daily basis until all she was usually left with was apathy and tiredness. It was uncomfortable sometimes, to feel muted at times in the day. But Dad said it was normal, and that it was meant to help her. Feeling the fire in her lungs, she can understand why. 

It is overwhelming, but such a simple word doesn't help to fully express the fumes rising with each breath rising and falling nor the tension she can feel acutely in her palms, in her fingers, in her neck, and lacing her arms. She shakiness she can feel accelerating with each tap-tap of her father's shoes. The sleek sliminess of sweat touching the delicate wood of her violin.

Anger, she finds, doesn't feel so good. She doesn't like it and more than anything, she wants it to go away. But it's hard because it also feels...  _ right _ .

She looks up from her curtain of hair to catch her father make his way across the entranceway and up the stairs. She listens to the sound of his sleek shoes clambering on the hardwood floors until it becomes nothing but a distant sound.

_ (She can barely hear her siblings, chatting away a floor below her and she can't but think how similar both her father's increasing distance and their faraway voices are.) _

It's funny how, as soon as he leaves, it's as if the world sighs and the tension once housed there drift away from the room and out the door, dogging his footsteps like a dog. It's also funny that by the time she hears him leave, the bitter stench of disappointment disperses away into something soft and aromatic; the sweet smell of relief is palpable in the air and she breathes it in with a hunger she tries to ignore. The anger leaves her as well, but something stays behind; where there was once a fire is now smoldering ash and the fumes leave a wisp of something she doesn't know in its' wake. It's soft, yet heavy. Mellow, but strong. It doesn't hurt- it aches. 

It makes the tears in her eyes dry up, but keeps the sensation there at the same time. It stops her hands from shaking and the sweat stops pouring from her skin, but her violin is heavy and loose in her grasp.

She thinks she likes it less than the anger. 

Blurriness encases the edges of her vision, washing over her eyes with a sort of kaleidoscope view. Blankly, she realizes, maybe those weren't imaginary tears in her eyes. They burn in their little spot in her eye but she knows better than to shed them. Except a part of her brain didn't seem to get the memo because it's not a second later that she feels wet trails trickle down, as soft as a breeze and as warm as sunshine on her skin. They travel down her cheeks to her chin and with each trail they leave, that smoldering fire feeling festers and grows. 

_ Your siblings were born naturally gifted, but you are being given the opportunity to grow your talents. _

Her hand grips the violin in shaky hands. They ache, fingers twitchy and muscles throbbing.

Her eyes bore a hole into the floorboards, but her ears never stop listening to the sound of her father's footfalls and the smoldering fire in her chest expands. It’s gaping. Empty. Hollow.

It feels lonely.

A part of her wants him to turn back around, but why so? So she could see his cold eyes again? To hear the unspoken words of disappointment and wasted talent she knows is behind her father's blunt tone? To be reminded, time and time again, that every note she plays, every ache in her hands, means nothing in comparison to the gifts her siblings hold? That it was always going to mean nothing, in the end?

That she’s nothing more than ordinary, forgettable Vanya?

( _ Yes, _ A part of her whispers.  _ Yes. But maybe, if we're good enough, Dad will see we  _ can _ do something special. Maybe then he’ll see we are good at something. Maybe then… Maybe. Maybe- _ )

Maybe-

The slam of his office door sounds like the explosion of a bomb, and the shockwave blows away her overwhelming thoughts, the tears in her eyes, and the smoke still fuming in her chest.

Because there is no chance of being seen as something more than she is. Not for her, at least.

Not for Number Seven.

Ordinary. Talentless. Forgettable.

And now a waste of opportunity.

( _ But maybe… Just maybe… _ )

She turns around and places her violin and bow staff in her case. The air feels cold as it brushes against her sweaty palms. She should feel relieved, but all she feels is tired.

“Ah. Good afternoon, Miss Vanya.” Pogo greets her as she clicks the case shut. “Your performance sounded quite exquisite today. I presume it was Phantom of the Opera?”

She nods slowly, suddenly bashful. “I-it wasn’t that great. I messed up on a few notes."

“It sounded very pleasant, on the contrary. You must have practiced quite a lot and it shows.”

Vanya looks down at the ground, cheeks blooming red.

She had. Practiced a lot, that is.

Her hands feel sticky at her side, the air cooling down the sweat on her palms. Her fingers, pads sore and moist, are stiff and she can sense the blooming calluses on them with every huff on air on her skin. Her arms hang on her side; the ache in her elbows a permanent reminder of the violin it used to hold. Her eyes feel droopy and the world swirls in on itself every now and then. A reminder of the two-hour rehearsal she just endured. 

The bitter smog inside her swirls, reminding her that those two hours it were for nothing.

“Dad said it wasn’t… good today.” She mumbles, and her eyes glue themselves to the floor. His lecture echoes in her ears.

_ I expect better from you, Number Seven... _

Pogo hums as she turns back around. Her music sheets, crumbled and wrinkled, sit folded beside her case. She had brought it with her and studied each and every note last night, just in case she forgot a note or missed a break line. Some good that did. 

Usually, she used her music sheet in her performances, but Dad wanted to see how much she had progressed and that meant no music sheet for her to look at. It was tough to memorize so many pages of notes, but Dad expected extraordinary things from her and she hadn't wanted to let him down. So much for that.

“Your father is a man with a very refined taste in expectations. He believes everyone should be at their best or nothing at all. To him, to do something, you must be steady in it.”

“He wants me to be perfect. He wants me to be better, but I'm not good enough.” She says and there's that overwhelming sensation again; something hot and crackling flickers to life and the smog darkens to black. It feels like the ignition of a match. The center of a roaring firepit. The small sparks of a tiny firecracker. The vibrancy of the color red. Heat spreads across her face, an uncomfortable prickly sensation tickling her skin.

It’s anger, she realizes.  _ She's _ angry.

And it's weird. Not in the sense of  _ feeling  _ it, per se, but to feel it this strongly. Because it's not just anger. It's frustration. Disappointment. Shame.

At her violin. At her aching hands. At the music sheets under her case.

At herself.

( _ It’s anger. Anger, fiery to feel, and quick in feeling. Anger that's seeded in the emotions she never really felt but yet knew all the time. It’s anger- muted. Controlled. And easy to extinguish.) _

She doesn’t like it, this anger. It's sudden and vibrant inside her chest. It makes her feel alive, mad, furious. It makes her feel uncomfortable, so much so that she wishes she had one of her bitter, chalky pills in her hand. 

But the spark is a futile thing because as soon as this overwhelming feeling arrives, it sputters away. It dies down in the brush of a gentle wind, is smothered in a soft path to the flames, and disappears with a pinch to the lit match until all she’s left with is gray smoke. It's still there- she knows it is because now, this anger is comfortable. It's not overwhelming like it was before but... it’s muted. Weak. Not as strong.

She breathes in as she shuffles the bow staff into the case.

In the corner of her eyes, she sees Pogo lean forward. 

He lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, his digits long enough to encase the small space of her shoulder. “You played beautifully, Miss Vanya.” He says and for a second, he looks like he's going to say something else, but the notion fades as he moves away. 

She contemplates opening her mouth and asking:  _ "What?" _

But she doesn't. She just... stands there and lets him back away and all Vanya has is the remains of her fuming anger.

Her violin case seems to burn in her hands as she picks it up. Her palms feel hot against the thin leather and her nails softly dig into the case.

_ I expect better from you... _

_ Your siblings were born naturally gifted... _

_ it's clear today how much you lack.... _

_ 'And what if I had a gift,' _ She thinks, eyes dropping to the floor.  _ 'What if I were born gifted? Would you love me then?' _

It’s a dangerous thought, the question of ' _ what', 'what if,'  _ and of  _ 'would you's.' _

_ What if  _ I had powers?  _ What if  _ I was perfect at playing the violin? _ What if  _ I was special?

It's kind of silly, in a sense, for someone boring and ordinary to think of something so grand. The thoughts are special. Imaginative. In her world, in this giant mansion of a house, there are extraordinary people with powers people would dream of- but it's not a place for extraordinary circumstances. No dreams coming to life and no odd incidents to bring something special into motion. There are no special forces in the world for some shooting star to grant a silly girl’s wish, only a giant house filled with special children, a billionaire of a father, a robot mother, an evolved chimpanzee, and her. Her, in a world full of special things. Her: ordinary, generic, unremarkable, and plain.

A  _ ‘maybe’  _ in a world full of fixed states of nothing but fact.

She knows she’s different than the rest of her siblings and she knows that the world isn’t some special force that could make things different. If there was, maybe she wouldn’t be some useless little girl in a place full of upcoming superheroes. Maybe she would've been something different. Someone special. Someone people would look at and see something similar to her brothers and sister.

Her head is full of _ ‘what if’s’ _ that could have been. But she knows well enough that the only special force out there- that shooting star granting wishes- is inside her siblings. 

_ They _ are special. They are those shooting stars streaking across the sky granting wishes. They are that special force in the world.

And her? She’s just like the rest of the world: boring, bland, and nothing compared to the extraordinariness her siblings personify. 

To the world, she's nothing special but at the same time, she is the dirt under shoes, the mellow gray in a world streaked with color, the night sky behind the stars. She is invisible to the world and yet, she is apart of it at the same time. She is one with the world and because of that, she is blended into the grayness that is ordinary life in conflict with the amazingness that is her family.

Because what is she compared to the bright stars in her life?

What is she in a world where the impossible is personified in the actions of her siblings?

What is the violin in comparison to the superpowers? Is it something bright enough to be a star or dim enough to see by those wandering eyes?

She thinks of cold eyes. Ice in personified form. She hears them say ' _ I expect better’ a _ nd she can’t help but think, _ what if I was? _

_ (What if I was like the rest of them? What if I had powers? What if- what if- what if-) _

What if she could be a star? What if she could be something special?

But she knows now, at the age of fourteen, that the world isn't some Hallmark movie Allison likes to watch. It isn’t someplace where everything could magically be fixed or where if circumstances alighted just right something amazing would happen. It’s not a storybook Mom would read to her nor the Mythological books Ben likes to read. No, it’s nothing like that; It's a boring canvas. It’s a place that things happen and that’s it. There’s no special force that can fix anything. No shooting stars full of magic, but of fly-by meters saying hi. 

But that doesn't stop her from thinking, though.

_ (What if, her father told her one day, “You played beautifully, Number Seven.’) _

But again, those are dangerous thoughts to think. A fantasy already dead before it's even been dreamed.

So she ignores it- the anger still evident in the way hands grip her case and the burning stare she gives the floorboards- and turns to Pogo. “Thank you.” She lets the words roll over her tongue. They taste bland and bitter, sorrowful and dry on her tongue.

He smiles at her and she can tell he’s trying to cheer her up, so she smiles back. It feels ill-fitted on her face, like some sort of puzzle piece not quite right. As if there are pieces missing from the picture. She wonders what she’s missing.

She wonders when it was the last time she smiled.

_ (It was when Five was still here, after dinner, and he had told her about Deigo and Luther colliding into each other so hard, they looked like a lumpy, odd pretzel wiggling on the ground. _

_ The thought had made her smile, but the image she pictures is blurry at best because she honestly couldn't remember the last time she had talked to Luther or Deigo for more than a few minutes. _

_ But it's a sad thought, so she focuses on Five's heated rambling about idiots and morons and smiles.) _

When Pogo turns to go, she turns as well.

Her cheeks feel awkward as she drops the smile.

It's silent as she stands there, motionless in the living room. Silent in the way it usually was after her voilin is put back in its case, the echo of her amateur performance nonexistent and her father's footsteps have long since reached their destination. It's one she had long since been used to, living in this house, but it's one she always hated nonetheless. And she knows that even if she were to head to her room right now, the quiet would still be there. 

And she really doesn't want to go to her room right now. She doesn't want to see her narrow bed shoved against the back wall, nor the small desk that barely fit into her room. Her room with its four walls and small space. The room where she had to tape her music sheets onto the small window that let in the exhaust-smelling air into her room. The room where turning off the light was as easy as stretching her leg to the light switch stationed by her door.

And just like in the living room, the white noise would be buzzing in her ears all the same. 

Pogo was gone now, his footsteps faint down the hall. Her siblings aren't talking anymore, but she can still catch the scritch-scratch sounds of pencils moving across paper from the makeshift classroom in the basement. And from the basement, Grace's humming is as soft as her footsteps.

It's those small sounds that remind her that she's not alone. Still, the noises are feeble compared to the silence of the house. 

Her footsteps are loud as she climbs up the stairs, the echoes of her footfalls seemingly resounding all around her. The hallway is soundless as she makes her way to her room, though the quiet is a civilian here; there hasn't been a day where her daily routine wasn't filled with distant noises; her regular violin lessons, Grace's distant humming, Dad's booming footsteps, and Pogo's soft footfalls. The soft  _ thwacks _ of Deigo's knives embedding themselves into targets and faint thuds of Luther's weights hitting the floor and the sound of Klaus' and Ben's shrill laughter bouncing off the hallway walls.

The floorboards creak under her foot and the sunlight falls smoothly onto the carpet under her shoes. The wrinkly, faded pictures lining the walls greet her as she heads to her room. Somehow, it's even more silent here, but that's normal. Those distant sounds she's familiarized herself with are far away; the next time she'll hear something other than white noise is when she pulls back out her violin and plays and plays and plays until her sibling's muffled bickering replaces the silence.

Though it's not all bad- the silence. Without the stomping and shouting and bickering going on, it’s easy to hear the birds tweeting outside and the hoking of cars as they go by. It’s nice to hear people chattering on the sidewalks and the occasional bark of a dog.

It’s nice.

But sometimes even nice things grow stale and soon, she knows she'll have to bring out her violin again and play it just so doesn't have to listen to the nothingness of the world. Her fingers still ache too...

“Come on, maybe we should go…”

“Oh come on, Luther. Don’t be a worrywart.”

Vanya pauses in the hallway, her door only a few steps in front of her.

Huh? That’s not right. Last she knew, her siblings were in the middle of a lesson. It's hard not to know the schedules of someone else's life when you live together. So that's why she knows that no one's voices besides her own should be up here and definitely not when their lessons are in progress right now.

“But Allison-“ She hears before a huff quietly floats into her ear and- oh. That voice. She knows that voice.

“Luther, stop talking and hold this curler. Careful though, it’s hot so don’t burn yourself.”

“But- but we’re late for lessons. Dad’s not going to be too happy when he finds out-"

“Dad’s evaluating Vanya’s playing right now. He won't know if we miss a measily five minutes of lessons, much less ever go downstairs and see for himself. Besides, Pogo's supposed to be teaching us today and he's a lot easier to rumor than Grace. He won't say a thing, trust me. Now hold this- don’t spill it! It’s my last one. Klaus keeps stealing my other ones and it’s so annoying.”

“But Allison-“

Vanya almost regrets knocking on the bathroom door. “Allison?” She says softly. “Luther? What are you guys doing in there?”

The conversation cuts off at the sound of her voice. It’s stilled, frozen, and painfully awkward at the same time. And then, just as quietly, the door opens. It’s Allison, peeking out from behind the half-closed door. Her dark hair is half curly and half straight. Her eyes smudged with eyeliner and Vanya can tell from the way her sister’s eyelashes curl outwards that she applied mascara as well. Luther’s blonde hair pokes out partially from behind Allison and the partially open door.

After an awkward moment of staring, Allison speaks up. “Um, hey Vanya.” She begins, fumbling in an uncharacteristic way that tells Vanya her presence is a surprise. An unwelcome one. “I thought you were doing you’re evaluations with Dad?”

It sounds like an offhand comment, but Vanya notes by the slight lilt in her words that it feels like a question to Allison. So, well, she answers.

“Oh, um, Dad ended evaluations early. Pogo gave him a note and, uh, he left. He told me to go practice on my own.” Well, that’s not really true but Vanya can’t bring herself to speak of her father’s words. It makes a twinge in her chest tighten slightly. "I- um what are- uh, do you need any help?”

Allison doesn't say anything. She just stares, eyes widened and trained on her. It makes Vanya feel incredibly uncomfortable, even more so than she was before.

A second passes. Then two seconds pass.

Allison keeps staring. Vanya thinks she should have just gone into her room.

She had meant to ask what they were doing there, but it’s obvious: Take advantage of Dad's lacking presence to spend some time goofing off before lessons. Or whatever it is Allison and Luther do. She doesn't know and she doesn't think she can ask at this point.

But she wants to be a part of it. Just for a second. Just to spend time with them before they go in a few minutes.

_ (Just to be a part of something where she can forget about Dad and his cold stare and the easy dismissal that is her existence.) _

Allison seems frozen for a moment and Vanya wonders if she’s done something wrong. Has she? She hopes not. She was just trying to ask what they were doing and maybe give them a warning about being late because something tells her this is a usual occurrence for them. And she thought, maybe she should help. That seems like something she should do. After all, she doesn’t really get to see her siblings all that often, with their odd schedules and all.

“…. Did you say Pogo was talking to Dad?”

Vanya blinks. Well, not quite, but she nods. “Yeah. About a minute ago. So do you need help with anything-“

“Oh my gosh!” Allison’s panicked voice is all Vanya has time to comprehend as the door slams close. “Luther! Hurry, turn off the curler. No! Not like that! And hand me my lipstick! Shit! Shit! Shit! Luther! Lipstick, please!’”

Luther goes: “Uh, sorry!”

And Vanya. She goes quiet. Silent. Gazing unblinking at the door as the frantic sounds of her siblings continues as they try to finish Allison’s morning routine with godspeed. Without her.

Vanya sighs as she turns away from the door.

But it’s okay. It is. It really is. She’d just get in the way if she tried to help. After all, she knows nothing about makeup. Or eyeliner. Or lipstick. That’s Allison’s thing, not hers. She doesn't even know what to do anyway; all she knows is how to somewhat play Phantom of the Opera on the violin. That's all. So really, it’s okay. It’s okay.

_ (Luther doesn’t know anything about make up either, she notes.) _

She continues down the hall, towards the back staircase. Past the informative pictures lining the wall. Away from the fiasco behind the bathroom door that Vanya wishes she could be involved in. Just once. Just  _ once _ .

She doesn’t notice her feet pausing in the middle of the hall nor the fact that walked past her door already. All she knows is that, even though it’s okay, it still hurts, aches even, to not be apart of something. 

It’s a familiar taste on her tongue.

She hears the telltale signs of a door slamming and running feet booking it down the stairs. She hears Luther's stomping feet mixed with Allison’s panicked bickering.

She hears her siblings go on about their day and she wonders- again, and again, and again- what it would be like to be in their world one day. To be in a classroom during the afternoon instead of the morning and to whisper to each other during lessons and to be apart of the mischief just like them.

But then she looks up, sees the end of the hallway and the stairs leading up to the third floor. She knows, despite not walking up there, that one of those doors are closed. It’s empty and has been for a year. That doesn't stop her from staring. And as she's staring, she starts wondering.

She wonders, and that little thought pops back into her head.

The maybe's. The possibilities. The could be's and what if's.

_ 'What if, _ ' She thinks to herself, past the heaviness lingering in her chest.  _ 'What if- what if- what if-' _

What if she had powers like her siblings? Would she be included? Would she feel less lonely?

_ ('What if she had gone with him?’) _

Vanya stumbles her feet to walk and tears her eyes away from the stairway. 

She should think like that. She can't think like that. It's not like she can magically gain powers overnight or anything. Plus, she would make a terrible superhero. Her siblings, on the other hand, are already ones; the things they can do.. it’s amazing. Amazing and bright and extraordinary. They're stars in the sky. A wish personified. A dream come true.

And she? She’s nothing but a reminder of the ordinariness in the world.

As she lays in her bed, narrow and cramped, and throws her case onto her small desk, she wonders- staring out the window at a clear sky listening to tweeting birds and honking cars- what does it feel to be adored? Not useless? Not ordinary?

But those are dangerous thoughts not meant for her, so she closes her eyes and feels the warm sunshine on her skin, tastes the bitterness on her tongue, and smells the flowery detergent of her bedsheets. She hears the world going about past her window and sees her father’s disappointed eyes.

The medication is bitter and smooth on her tongue. It’s a complex sensation to feel, much less taste, as the tiny pill makes its' journey from her tongue to her throat; the white casing of her medication smooth as it travels down but bitter-tasting as it slides along her tongue. She’s used to it by now though.

Still. Feeling the small capsule slither down her esophagus is uncomfortable, to say the least, but she ignores it in favor of sipping at the glass of water perched on her desk.

Papers still litter her desk, creating a messy atmosphere of frantic equation solving and frustrated problem-solving. Pogo had given her a math lesson yesterday and it had taken her longer than expected; math was never her greatest subject and the numbers subdivided by the percentage of a decimal was like oil with water on her brain. Nothing had quite stuck with her yet in regards to learning, and the lessons never quite sunk in to form some sort of concoction of understanding.

Dad was out with her siblings on a mission that afternoon- someplace in Paris, if she had heard from Allison squeal the previous night- so she had more than enough time to figure it out. Except she had no idea what to do. 

Her pencil tapped a steady rhythm onto her half-blank paper.

_ Tap-Tap-Tap. _

A second passed. Then another. Then a minute passed.

She still had no idea what to do. Maybe she should ask for help....

Further in the emptiness of the house, she could hear Grace's faint humming bounce off the walls, high-lilted and pleasant sounding, along with the faint pit-patter of feet hitting the floor. Pogo. He must be running an errand for her father. What that errand was, she had no idea; Pogo never went outside and Dad's job was always a mystery to her.

Then again, he wasn't exactly an open person. Not that he ever really was; when he spoke to her, it always in the form of blunt criticism to open disappointment. 

_ Tap-tap-tap. _

Her pencil tapped another beat onto her paper. She wasn't sure how long she had been tapping for- she lost count after 157- but it was long enough for her pencil to turn warm between her fingers. She could feel the sweat coating the smooth, now-warm wood and the tiny jabs poking her skin. Vanya grimaced at the feeling. Her fingers were still sore from practicing earlier and the calluses had yet to form.

She hoped they did soon. Grace told her it would make playing easier and she desperately wished the day would come because the thin strings of her violin sort of hurt after a while. Who knows, maybe it'll make her a better violin player, and wouldn't that be nice.

Her last performance wasn't so great and she didn't want to mess up the next one.

_ Tap-tap-tap. _

Speaking of calluses, her fingers were starting to hurt now. She'd have to stop tapping soon and start attempting to do her homework again. Except, then she would be left in the silence and she always hated the emptiness of sound. 

She hoped Dad would be home soon.

Good thing she didn't have to wait long. 

She wasn't sure what time it was when she heard it; the sky looked the same as it always did: Blue, endless skies full of wispy clouds and sunshine. Her paper still sat there on her desk, still half-done and still not complete, and while she knew she was supposed to be getting ready for bed, she just... couldn't.

_ (And no matter how long she laid in bed, sleep wouldn't come. It wouldn't for a while, though it was no one's fault but herself. She never liked the silence; she hated the nights where the only ones occupying the house was her, Grace, Pogo, and the emptiness echoing in the halls and the chilliness creeping along the halls. She hated hearing the absence of her siblings. She hated listening to the loneliness in her small room.) _

She knew it wasn't a good idea to procrastinate for so long. The more time she wasted finishing her homework, the more time she spent with these empty walls. 

She never did like spending so much time in her room; it was as if the hours had gone rampant, control slipping from her grasp as the minutes passed on and on and the sky grew darker and darker in the blink of an eye. Then, before she knew it, it would be time for bed and she would prepare for sleep she knew she would never get. 

It may have been a year since she had last stayed up long past midnight, but it was hard to break something you weren't really willing to let go. Especially when the reason you'd stayed up so late wasn't here anymore. 

_ (Maybe one day, he'll come back. She hopes so. She had gotten good at making peanut and marshmallow sandwiches.) _

Though she had ways to occupy herself during those late nights. She learned the hard way.

The last time she stayed up late... it didn't end well.

_ (She could still feel her father's cold eyes. The mocking pity fragment in the air. The warmth of the bread in her sweaty hands and the sleekness of the peanut butter jar trembling in her grasp. It was dark, save for the faint glow of the kitchen light hanging above her. _

_ She hadn't cared for the darkness thought; she knew this house like the back of her hand. She knew which step on the stairs creaked and which cabinet had a loose screw. She knew what time Dad turned off his office light for night and what color the sky was when Klaus had finally stopped scratching at the walls and gone to bed. _

_ She knew how to get to the kitchen unnoticed because she'd done it so many times before. She should have known better now, though. Of course her father would find out eventually. Of course he would.  _

_ 'You're a shitty liar,' Someone told her once, but she's too busy listening to her father to remember who. _

_ 'Such a pity, Number Seven,' He'd told her, but it sounded like anything but. 'Wasting your time with something so.. trivial. Pah! I don't have many expectations for you, child, but I expected better from you to be smart enough to realize when someone wasn't coming back.' _

'But he is,'  _ Something inside her screamed. _ 'He will come back. He has to. He will.'

_ And she'd taken it as she always had- with a silent nod of her head.) _

And though it may be silent now, she was too lost in her head to notice the creak of the front door opening. She must have been, because she hadn't heard the door open. If she had, she wouldn't have been startled by the sudden biting tone of a lecture coming from beyond her door.

It was a bit funny; her father's voice was barely an echo, but his ever-present disappointment was as audible as a plane engine. 

Typically, the sound of her sibling's arrival always made something inside her lighter. The house was so quiet when they were gone and no matter how much time Vanya spent by Grace’s side, her humming never helped ease the unconscious hole her sibling’s liveliness left when they were gone.

When they came home, usually, they would trudge up the stairs, worn and drained and covered it whatever else they had gotten themselves into on missions. They would be tired and hungry and longing for their beds. And most of all, they would mutter a response to whatever Vanya would say. 

Normally, it was  _ “Not now, Vanya” _ or  _ “We’ll talk later, Vanya.” _

Normally, it was her alone. As usual.

Yet, during those fragile times that her siblings wouldn't push her away, it was nice; Allison would actually smile at her and Ben would give her a small wave while he lead a dark-eyed Klaus to his room, who would give her an absent-minded wave at her timid greeting. Even Deigo and Luther would grunt an acknowledgment at her.

It was something small. Something simple; an automatic response to a generic greeting. But still, those small moments were nice.

_ (It was nice to be looked at instead of absentmindedly looked over. It was nice to be acknowledged rather than accidentally forgotten. Or just forgotten in general.) _

However, hearing that loud creak of the door wasn’t anything but unpleasant. Her stomach pooled with dread and her skin prickled with anxiety and alarm. Her shoulder, hunched over her desk, felt tense and the pencil became a helpless victim in the tightening grasp of her sweaty palms. Her hands still ached a bit from her violin practice earlier that day. But when she heard her father's voice, all the problems in her little world blew up.

Because her father coming home and that one thing: business would go on as usual. Training would go on undisturbed. Meals would go on at their appropriate times that night. And then, most minuscule of all, their assignments and lessons would be evaluated.

It wasn’t a surprise for that to be a thing; their father graded everything in their lives: their daily lessons, their training, her evaluations, and most of all, their education. From what she knew, all her siblings were allowed an excused absence from their usual lessons as their mission in Paris disturbed their usual schedule. But hers wasn’t. In fact, it was currently staring up at her, decorated in messy scrawls of numbers and letters but most important of all were the blank portions still unfinished.

The panic that spiked through her, sudden and vibrant and whelming, as she all but stared at her homework. Homework that she had no idea how to finish, was stuck on, and was more than unable to do anything but stare.

Stared and stared and stared.

And the numbers stared right back.

Maybe it was because of her frustration, her desperation, her sudden spike of panic. Maybe it was because of the math problems unsolved on the page. Maybe it was because of the screeching thoughts of  _ What do I do? _ and  _ How do I solve this? _ ”blaring in her brain or the raw panic fluttering in her throat. Maybe it was because she really needed to turn this in to Dad without any errors and she didn’t know how to solve a few math problems.

All she knows is that Dad expects perfection, neatness, and above all else, he expects results. 

The scribblings decorating her homework were anything but.

She could always ask Pogo for help. He was always kind, and he never seemed annoyed at her questions.

_ (But what if he told Dad she was struggling. She was already failing at learning the violin, she couldn’t be a failure in math too.) _

Maybe she could ask Mom. She might know what to do. She is the one who taught them after all.

_ (But Mom was charging right now. She shouldn't disturb her.) _

Then maybe she could ask someone else...

Oh....

_ Oh. _

Okay.

She could do that, just ask. It wouldn't hurt.

She could, she really could. Just go up to them, knock on their doors, and ask for help on some math problems. That was easy. Right?

_ (No. No, it wasn’t.) _

She could ask for help. That was okay. Right? And if they couldn't help now, maybe tomorrow morning? She didn't have lessons until noon and her siblings had individual assessments tomorrow. She could ask one of them for help, finish the few problems for math, and then have it done for Grace by noon. Maybe… 

_ (Maybe... Just maybe..) _

Her footsteps are deafening loud as she walks over to her open door. She could still hear her father's lecture; the clip in his words and the harshness of his voice were telling signs of his disappointment. 

Usually, Vanya craved her father's attention, but something fluttering nervously inside her made her rethink that. And, just for safe measures, she made sure to carefully creep down the dark hall. The thought of a creaking floorboard echoing down the hall was nerve-wracking to have.

She quickly makes her way over to the walkway overhead the entrance hall to peek her head out. Her father must have finished his lecture because he's already gone from sight. 

A step creaks to her right and Vanya turns her head. Her siblings are barely making their way up the stairs. They’re grim, to say the last.

Uniforms, stained with soot and dirt. Tatters ripped on their arms and legs. Bits of dried blood caked underneath noses and split lips and dirtied knuckles. Vanya almost balked at the sight of Allison's hair; it was tangled, leaves and twigs sticking out of her sister's normally pretty hair, and she could have sworn some strands were smoking.

Again, she wonders  _ what _ happened.

Luther is the first one up the stairs- most likely from cutting because he believes Number One should be first for everything- and the scowl on his face tells her everything she needs to know about the recent mission. Allison, on the other hand, looks rather annoyed from the way she stiffly holds herself up; her chin tilted up and head held high, shoulders squared and back straight. Further back, she spies Ben and Klaus hanging back down the stairs. Almost they were distancing themselves. Or waiting.

Now Vanya wonders  _ why _ .

She gets her answer when she sees Deigo. He’s wearing a scowl as well, but it's... angrier is the word she would use. She can't see him well from her vantage point, but she can imagine the teeth grinding against each other and the heated words bubbling on his tongue. Plus, it doesn't take a genius to see how red his face. 

_ (She's more than used to seeing the anger on people's faces long before they open their mouths. She had, after all, listened to Five's rants. And  _ he  _ was all frustration and temperamental in a way Deigo's anger could never match.) _

Something definitely must have gone wrong during the mission, her brain tells her. Good thing she doesn't need to wonder for long.

Luther, Allison, and Deigo don’t even stop as they pass her by, harshly stomping down the hall. Almost like they couldn't wait to be out of each other’s presence. Which is proven correct only a few seconds later when Luther and Deigo throw open their doors.

_ (They didn't even say hi,' She thinks to herself, a pang of something heavy pulling in her chest. "Didn't they see me?') _

_ ('What do you think?' Another part of her bitterly replies back. 'Do they ever?') _

Vanya does nothing as she watches them slam their respective doors, Allison having slipped into Luther’s.

Probably to fume about the mission.

_ (She wonders what that’s like. She wonders what it’s like to gossip and fume and vent about something like that to someone. She wonders if Allison would do that to her one day.) _

It’s been a while since Allison had snuck into her room for some "sister-time" as she had called it, nail polish and makeup in both hands. It had only happened on a few occasions, but it had been fun when it happened.

There was one instance she remembered, one that stuck with her, two years ago. It was past eight, around this time, and Allison had slipped into her room when they were supposed to be getting ready for bed, magazines and nail polish bottles in her hands.

_ “Hey, Vanya.”  _ Vanya had looked up as the door was thrown open. _ “How was your day today?” _

She had been flabbergasted, stunned. Surprised. And her muttered response reflected that.

_ “It was fine,“  _ She had replied because while nothing bad had happened that day, not much good had happened either. It was a day filled with Grace’s lessons and aching fingers from playing her violin. It was a day full of empty hours and empty halls filled with empty voices and empty rooms. 

_ “Lucky,”  _ Allion had said as she all but threw herself onto Vanya’s bed. Nail polish bottles and magazines were thrown onto her bed as well. _ “I wish I could spend the day doing nothing, but Dad had us doing ‘Teamwork training,’ or whatever it’s called. Frankly, I’d call it a waste of time. Sometimes, I think Deigo is either deaf or stupid, maybe both. Either way, he’s an asshole. Five on the other hand-“ _

Vanya shifted as she listened to Allison rant. 

Fire ants goosebumped up her arms as her sister’s shoulder occasionally brushed against her. Brown eyes turned towards her every once and a while and something akin to fire ants would ghost up her arms. It was an unsettling feeling, this tingling anxiousness, and one that reminded her to make sure she took her medication in a few minutes. Dad was adamant about it. He always was.

And she knew she was right if Allison’s mere stare was enough to make the questions burn on her tongue. It was enough when it felt as if every pore on her skin was leaking sweat and trepidation, palms sweaty and nerves fired up with unwanted tension with the mere thought of opening her mouth and asking Allison something that would break this odd, yet nice moment. __ Questions like  _ "What are you doing here?”  _ and _ “Why are you here?"  _ and _ "What do I do? What do I do?”  _

It felt wrong, this bit of awkwardness settled inside this nice moment, one that had the fire ants under her skin crawl all over her with anxious abandon only noticeable in the way her fingers fumbled and twisted with the fabric of her sleeve.

And she.. didn't know. What to do. What to say. It was a chaotic jumble of thoughts in her brain. It always was. 

Vanya… had no idea what to do, no idea what to say, as Allison had rambled on and on. Don’t get her wrong, she was happy Allison was here- Dad had them on stricter schedules in preparation for their debut happening soon and he wanted them in peak condition. But still, it was an odd occurrence; her sister being here. Not that she never saw her, it was always a small wave as they readied themselves in the morning, during their half-hour for lunch and recreational time, and when they were all headed for bed. It wasn’t much that she got to see her sister, but it was nice to get a wave every now and then. 

Still though, it was weird seeing her here, sitting on her bed while she rambled on and on about their latest training session ending up in flames. It was nice to paint each other's nails and read stupid, girly magazines Allison had said was ‘the lastest edition’ with some special celebrity she had adored.

_ “Isn’t he just the cutest?”  _ Allison squealed as she all but thrust a page in front of Vanya’s face with enough force to make her bangs flutter. Vanya blinked at the page of the shirtless guy on the screen before looking away, an uneasy discomfort squirming in her stomach. Still, she gave her sister a small smile. It felt awkward and wrong. 

_ “Yeah…”  _ She had said, though it left an aftertaste on her tongue. To be honest, Vanya didn’t care much for girly magazines or hot guys. She didn’t usually paint her nails or vent on and on about her day- one, because nothing much happened and two, the polish was kind of strong smelling and not at all pleasant.

But Allison made it fun. For about an hour, then she had to leave before Dad made his rounds around the halls. 

It was only half an hour, but Allison’s exaggerated gushing over the hottest celebrity ‘in the now’ and the feel of her soft hands holding Vanya’s calloused ones was something that stuck for hours after it ended.

That was the last time she remembered spending more than five minutes with her sister.

It made her wonder if there’d be anymore. Anymore of those small moments in Vanya’s life that didn’t feel as stifling and ordinary as her days normally passed by. Anymore moments where Vanya could be apart of their life, a split second to bask in their light. To feel what it was like, for just a split second, to be like them for just a moment.

But there aren’t moments like that anymore. There aren’t what-ifs for her to think or; they’re nonexistent and, most of all, not the present. And right now, she has a math paper due in four hours. One she should really get done…

Each step she takes feels like walking in a landmine; her footfalls are loud and her shoes clank against the polished wooden floors. The hallways, for once, are silent from her sibling's exuberant energy; the only time the halls were this quiet was when it was time for bed and that was hours away.

Vanya lingered there, at the end of the corridor for a moment, before stepping forward to knock against Luther’s door, but then she stopped.

Maybe… she shouldn't ask them. Allison looked pretty upset earlier and Luther looked more annoyed than anything. Deigo didn't seem much better, but she had to at least ask. That would be okay, right?

Somehow, knocking her hand against the solid oak of his door told her a resounding  _ no _ . The response she got was all the confirmation she needed.

“What is it?” She heard Deigo snap and oh, he sounded  _ mad _ . But she was already here, her feet glued to the floor, and the paper in her hands was a ticking time bomb scarier than Deigo’s temper.

She opened her mouth before she could back out. ‘Um, welcome back.” The words were slippery soap; the words were foul-tasting and she couldn't help the grimace on her face. “I was wondering if you’d help me with my math lessons? I’m stuck on what to do for one problem and-“

“I’m not any good at that,” Diego spat out, not even bothering to wait for her to finish as he flung open the door.

His room was a mess. Knives were stuck in the walls and clothes covered the floor. She spied his uniform thrown carelessly onto his desk. She vaguely wondered how Mom even handled cleaning in a mess like that.

‘Um, sorry. I was just wondering-.” She said quickly, unable to meet the agitation in her brother’s eyes. He still had his mask on and his uniform was ruffled and wrinkled. Still, even with his eyes covered, his anger was as palpable as a lump of hot coals.

“Hey! Don’t snap at her!” Allison's voice suddenly snapped behind her. Vanya whirled around to see her sister poking her head out of Luther's room.

“Whatever,” Was all Deigo muttered before the large oak door slammed shut with a resounding  _ thud _ .

Allison retaliated with a slam on his door.

“Fucking asshole,” Allison grumbled as she turned back around. Something inside Vanya tensed at the glint in her eyes and the deep scowl on her glossed lips.

The paper in her hand burned.

Vanya swallowed. “Um, Allison, do you mind-“

“I’m busy right now,” She smoothly replied as she walked past Vanya before she, too, slammed the door. Luther’s door, to be exact.

Klaus whistled low and loud as he and Ben peeked over the frame of Klaus’ door. “Damn,” He muttered, leaning against the doorframe. “They sure are pissed.”

Ben replied to that with a squinted look at his brother. “And you’re not helping.” He said, though the slight frown on his face said enough of his displeasure.

Vanya breathed in and out.

In and out. 

She swallowed. Her throat felt dry. Her hands felt shaky.

_ (She should have just asked them later.) _

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ben shift. "Hey, so what's up? Did you need anything?" She lifted her head in time to catch his eyes glancing at the wrinkled paper in her hand and she timidly nodded.

“Um, do you guys know how to do this?” The words left her breathless as if she had to fight to get the words out. It certainly felt so; her throat was oddly aching and breathing felt like a challenge.

In and out. In and out...

Air contacted in her throat and Vanya stuttered on her breath.

With a shaky exhale, she all but thrust the sheet in front of her. It was warm now and limp, crinkly and wrinkled. Hopefully, Dad wouldn't be too upset about that.

Klaus huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, you really don’t want my help.” He said. “I used my last page as a-“

Ben elbowed him before he could finish. “He means he’s bad at math,” He said with a glare at Klaus. Her brother merely smiled at him. Ben did look back at the paper though, so that was... something.

She inhaled.

Ben frowned.

She let out a shaky exhale.

“Hm. Sorry,” He said, soft eyes looking back at hers. “I’m not good at this stuff yet. Or ever. Maybe the others could help?”

Later was unsaid but just as loud as any spoken word.

Vanya bit her lip as she gazed down at the page in her hand. A messy scrawl of numbers and erased equations met her gaze. “Uh, do you know who is?” She asked. She wasn’t as familiar with the material they learned as she was with their schedule. She had her lessons privately with Grace.

Ben pondered her question with a furrowed brow, and Klaus took the chance to slip into his room. “I’m not sure. I think we learned that sort of stuff last week, but Dad hasn’t evaluated it yet and I, um…”

“He forgot,” She heard Klaus say as he popped back into view, something small rolling in between his fingers. “And you know how dear ol’ Dad is about our school work; he doesn’t let anything pass him up, much less our homework.” Klaus then promptly popped something green into his mouth, chewing it like bubble gum. Though Vanya had a feeling it wasn’t gum. “Though don’t worry about asking; the others are shit at math too. Too bad the only smart one up and left us. Lucky bastard.”

There was a pinched look on his face as Klaus said that. It was a furrow in his brows. In the way, he glanced at the ground with a slight squint. A momentary pause as he frowned, a thin line on his lips.

It was gone in a flash, and the easygoing grin was back on his face. 

That didn't erase the skip in her heart though, nor the sudden sorrow panging her chest. 

She took a breath in and out.

In and out.

It felt like inhaling water, suffocating and constricting.

“He’ll come back one day,” Vanya said, but her voice trembled just as the word stumbled out, messy and mumbled. Soft and breathless. 

_ (He'll come back. He would. He will.) _

Ben regarded her with a long look. Vanya tried her best not to decipher what it could mean. “Yeah,“ He said, soft. “He will.” 

_ 'Such a pity, Number Seven... I expected better from you to be smart enough to realize when someone wasn't coming back.' _

The reassurance sounded warm and soft. A gauze on a wound. Water on hot skin. Pleasant. Soothing. 

But look in Ben's eyes, the one that had gone away when she'd looked back at him.... 

She wasn't the best at interpreting looks, but she had enough practice in deciphering the mood on her father's face. The furrow in his eyebrows. The frown on his mouth. The glint in his eyes.

Ben had none of those tells and it would be a foreign thing to see on a face as kind as his. Yet, she could see the lift in his eyebrows, the slight downward curl of his smile, and the emotion in his eyes.

She wasn't sure what to label it as, but it was something sad. Not for himself, but for  _ her _ .

Suddenly, Vanya hated that look. On any other day, Ben was a nice change of pace from the constant loneliness that followed her around the house. He wasn’t as talkative as Klaus could be and not as temperamental as Deigo and not as distant as Luther, but he was quiet. And to Vanya, quiet wasn’t a bad thing; it was her only companion some days. However with Ben, the quiet wasn’t so bad. At least not alone.

_ (But there used to a brother who was all of that: temperamental and feisty and awkward and quiet and as complicated as that person, Vanya missed the complexity of him.) _

Any other time, that kind look would be enough in a house where eyes glanced away from her and attention bounced off her. Any other time, his gentle smile would be enough to make some part of her happy. Any other time, his calm presence would be enough to make her forget the agitation from her siblings, from the anxiety of her math work, and of the complicated look on Klaus’ face that lasted no longer than a second but lasted many more in her brain. Any other time, it would be enough. But not now.

No. All it was right now was ice water on scorched skin. It was piano music grating on her ears. It was a rough blanket scratching against her skin. It was sitting in the grass and feeling the ants crawling all over you. It was everything she didn’t want right now.

And she wasn’t sure why.

The pill bottle in her room seemed to burn through her brain

‘S _ uch a pity, Number Seven _ ” Dad’s words spoke, as blunt and present as ever. "S _ uch a pity..." _

And suddenly, she didn’t want to be here. She didn't want to be here, begging for help she knew-  _ knew _ \- would never come. She didn’t want to ask for help on some stupid math problems. She didn't want to- she shouldn't have. Nothing good was going to come from it and she knew. 

She had different lessons from her siblings, she should have known they wouldn't know how to help. And they were busy and mad and tired from their latest mission. She shouldn't have asked and kept up their time because that’s all she ever did and all she had to show from this attempt was the nervousness and the awkwardness and the heartache she didn’t want right now.

She shouldn't have asked. She shouldn't have tried. Nothing good ever came from it. Nothing good ever would.

The paper crinkled as her fingers tightened their grip.

“I’m… going to go back to my room.” She heard herself say- mumbled, muttered, whispered. “I’ll figure it out. Thanks anyway.”

She didn’t look at Ben as she turned around. Didn’t lift her head at the small smile he had given her. Didn’t even acknowledge the soft smack her brother gave Klaus as she closed her door nor the “Really? Right now? What if Dad sees you with that-“

All she could was lean against the solid wood and breathe. In and Out.

In and out.

In and out.

The pills were bitter in her tongue as they passed her tongue and smooth as water as they sunk down her throat.  _ ‘Make sure you take your medicine,' _ Dad’s voice whispered. ' _ It’s to help with your emotions.’ _

She wondered if they ever helped her. She hopes they do. She doesn’t think they do.

Because even when she sits down on her small desk and wobbly chair, numbers staring at her, even when the heavy feeling in her chest does dissipate, the tight grapple on her lungs slowly eases away, and \the frantic waves crashing inside her slowly calms...

The heaviness doesn’t leave her. It’s deep ache, underneath all the calmness of her pills, and one that doesn't disappear in the slightest as she sinks down into the placidness settling in. It feels almost untouchable from the anxious remedies of the bitter, smooth pill floating in her stomach.

It’s a mellow sensation; a hollow emptiness she knew was once filled, once known, but after years, it’s a forgotten friend. It’s a lost anchor at the depths of the ocean. A lochness monster she’ll never find. It’s a missing piece she can’t seem to find. Maybe because that piece doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe it’ll never be found, lost in the unknown.

It makes her feel smaller. A little something in a house full of grand discoveries. A personification of quiet and ordinariness and underwhelming; it’s something she can breathe in.

In and out.

In and out.

Down the hall, in a world of their own, Allison’s voice is shrill in frustration. Luther is a booming advocate. Their primary enemy: A failed mission and a failure of a teammate.

Next door, the click-click sound of a lighter is background noise. Ben is a cascade of words; some are a loud burst of laughter and small quiet reprimands. Klaus is an uncontrollable remedy. He’s loud and displaced happiness and artificial calmness that grates on Ben’s scolding. It's such a sharp contrast but one that, oddly enough, makes a strange, harmonious melody.

Down the hall, distant and far off, something thuds. Over and over again like a steady rhythm. It’s a steady beat, but in the millisecond it sounds, the feelings it expresses is heard loud and clear from the heaviness of the throw and the loudness of the knife sticking into the walls. It’s anger in the way the knife sinks into the wall and frustrated stubbornness in the deep grunts as the knife is pulled from it’s hole.

And in here, in this small room, the paper is a crinkled mess. Her violin is a silent memory of a melody. The ache in her finger to her hands is a memory of work she hasn’t finished yet and a reminder of the pencil she’ll have to pick up again. And sooner or later, she knows she has to sit back down, pick up her dull pencil, and try to wrack her brain to solve these dumb equations. She’ll frown, grip her hair, and stab the pencil onto wrinkled paper with a dull annoyance she has long since gotten used to.

Another chord of frustration in a house of melody.

And yet, there's something missing in this song of anger.

She stares down at the math swarming the paper, of empty answers she can’t seem to find, and tries for the life of her to not think of that missing piece, this hole in the house. It hovers up a floor above, where a door remains closed, and it's present in the look on Klaus' face and Ben's smile.

The math remains untouched.

_ (The tap-tap-tap of an unsteady beat drum on her desk. A tanned finger waits with unfamiliar patience as she scribbles the formula onto her paper.  _

_ “Like this?” She asks, glancing up unsurely at the tapper.  _

_ “Yep,” They’ll say, but she always had an ear for his quick mind. She can practically hear the rushed thoughts and answered questions already done thanks to the translation of her brother’s unsteady tap-tap-tap. “Now, just divide this by- no, no. Not like that- yeah. That’s it.” _

_ The numbers are foreign in her head, the understanding not sinking in yet. But it will. Soon, before her brother’s impatience gets the best of him. It always does, sooner or later- that’s just who he was. How he thought. He always seemed to pick things up faster than the others. _

_ Maybe that’s why he picks up on her quiet frustrated confusion so easily.  _

_ “Stop worrying so much, it’s stupid.” He says and for a second, the tap-tap-tap stops momentarily.  _

_ “Sorry,” She says. Her eyes stare a whole into her paper. “I just… I don’t get it.” The words are meek. Timid. Feeble. _

_ The tap-tap-tap returns. Firmer. Harder. A translation for his growing temper festering underneath his skin. She hears the shuffle of feet. The tap-tap-tap of soles prancing on the hard-wood floors. A short huff weakly agitates her paper.  _

_ “It’s fine.” He says, but it’s more mellow. Softer. Quieter. “Don’t worry about it. You’re far ahead of the others. Luther’s still on dividing exponents and Deigo is a sore loser at algebra. He threw a pencil at the wall. It’s still there.” _

_ Vanya smiles at that. It’s a funny image- Deigo struggling to get the pencil out of the wall before their Dad saw it. She wonders how that played out. “So Number Two's still stuck in the wall?” She tries, feeling a bit brave. _

_ There’s a snort from beside her. The tap-tap-tap is softer this time, rhythmic. “Is that a joke?” He says, but she can hear the small smirk on his face.) _

The paper blurs the longer she stares at it. Blurry and indistinct in her eyes, like she’s losing sight the longer she stares at the damn paper. It’s still half blank, half empty. The equations long to be filled, but her hands, unguided, feel lost with the pencil in her hand.

She sighs and the pencil falls dramatically onto her desk. It’s an unsteady beat in this chorus, a misplaced frustrated piece that doesn’t belong in this moment of anger. The slow feeling of weightlessness in her chest tells her pills have started working though. Or maybe the frustration is numbing her nerves to the point where anger is useless and unnecessary.

Unfit. Misplaced. Not belonging.

Outside, the birds tweet. The trees blow with the wind. The honk of cars and chatter of people is a different tune than the one in the house. It’s a song of living, the act of a mundane day.

She stares out the window and  _ wonders _ , for the umpteenth time that day, how it would feel to be out there. To be somewhere else. To step a foot outside this house and away from the suffocating disease of disappointment and anger that infects every nook and cranny.

Vanya reaches over and opens the window. Just a bit.

The breeze drifting in from the ajar window brushes against her cheek. The smell of gasoline and smog wafts into her small world. The faint chatter of people and cars rumbling down the street accompany the chorus of tweeting birds flying by. It’s such a familiar, yet different symphony than the one plying in her home, past the walls of her private world. The world she belongs to, as Number Seven, and yet she isn't a part of. A world where she doesn't belong and yet longs for the taste of what it was like to be apart of something bigger than herself. To be apart of her family's world.

Outside though, it’s different. Unfamiliar. Nothing at all like the one outside her door. It brings a frightening curiosity. A discomforting unknown. A risky voyage to a clumsy sailor.

It’s a burning curiosity she can’t shake off.

And isn’t that a war in and of itself? What’s more dangerous: The anger seeping in this house or the unknown outside her door?

There's no answer-  _ no one _ to answer her. There's only the gentle breeze brushing against her face and the smell of pollution wrinkling her nose and the vocals of the lives outside disturbing the small percussion of her room. It tastes of curiosity. Of wonder. Of maybe’s and could be’s.

_ (Is this what Five felt when he left, when he was planning to leave? _

_ Did he see the wonder, feel the curiosity, and dive headfirst into the unknown? Did he derive off the unfamiliarity of the world around him and leave?  _

_ He was always inquisitive, she remembered. He always had something on his mind. His brain was in constant motion; ideas and thoughts and opinions and plans concocted in everything he did, whether it be doing homework or training with his powers or bickering about their siblings or even fuming about their father's restrictions on the very thing that made him special. _

_ He was always curious, and he was never afraid of the unknown. _

_ Maybe that's why he left so suddenly. She's not sure. _

_ Maybe he'll tell her when he comes back.) _


	2. Stage 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denial is repetitive. Anger is an aggressive emotion for all to witness in the snarl tugging at the lips and the crease in the eyebrows. But to those who feel it, it's overwhelming and destructive and confusing, but most of all, it's freeing. All those tightly concealed feelings bottled up inside, mixing and cooking into a chaotic concoction that erupts has no choice but to erupt.
> 
> It's especially freeing for someone who has so little taste of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my. This chapter... is so chaotic...
> 
> To be honest, I think I was going somewhere in the beginning but then it was started to go everywhere and I was already so busy doing other things I had option to rewrite and I didn't want to do that again so, uh, here.
> 
> Though maybe that's not a bad thing? Writing is chaotic, just as growing up in life is. So maybe, in the end, this will magically go somewhere. Who knows.

The energy of the house is electric. Static. Vibrating in urgency and panic. It runs high within the walls and echoes off the cold walls of the halls.

The alarm, blaring above her, causes the violin to screech a painful tune. She stumbles from the stanza she’s on, her callused numb fingers fumbling with the bow staff achingly gripped in her hand. The fingers pressing down onto the violin strings push down too much pressure. The note morphs from a screech to an agonizing wail.

Vanya tries her best to ignore her father's quick glare as she stares up. 

Guess it's safe to say that she's utterly failed her evaluations. Again. 

Still, the blaring alarm had been a terrible surprise to hear, even though she was long since used to the raucous cry it blared through the house.

She heard her father huff, a short and tempered sounding sound, before the tell-tale noises of shoes on wood echoing swiftly down the hall. In the same motion, Vanya shoved her violin into its' case as made her way to stand by the entrance hall. 

She knew she could never be a part of the Umbrella Academy- she had come to terms with it... sort of- and that she couldn't do, well, much. But she could wish them good luck and give them a wave goodbye on their way out. That's what good siblings do, right?

She hoped so.

She hadn't seen much of them in a while; Dad had upped their training sessions and now there wasn't a moment in Vanya's bland day where her siblings weren't trudging to their rooms, covered in sweat and scraps.

Luther usually tried to hide it, the difficulty in their training, but it was easy to see the shakiness in his arms and the labored breathing he'd huff as he climbed up the stairs. Allison was a bit easier to read; her usually pristine uniform was dirtied and torn, the fringe of her skirt burned or ripped, and the makeup she'd taken precaution in applied ruined and smudged on her face. 

Diego, on the other hand, well.... she'd taken to stepping a bit back into the safety of her room whenever he came. He was getting a bit crankier since the new development and she wasn't fond of getting snapped at for being "noisy." But he was affected all the same too; the shredded sleeves and cuts littering his uniform was all too noticeable, as noticeable as the dark bruises on his limbs.

Klaus... well, she hadn't actually seen much of him. Or maybe she was just terrible at picking the perfect time to catch him. Either way, it probably wasn't better than her other siblings. She already had a nightly ritual of hearing him  _ scratch-scratch-scratch  _ the walls in the middle of the night, the muffled cursing he'd taken up recently wasn't anything surprising. 

Ben hadn't been faring well either. Though he didn't have the same injuries as the rest of her siblings, he was coming back more bloody. He always tried to clean it off before he came up, but red was a vibrant color and it was especially bright in his hair and sticking to his clothes. He was the only one, actually, to smile at her when she poked her head out of her room. Not that it ever reached his eyes.

In fact, it was him that told her how busy her siblings were now.

_ "Dad's been taking us more international,"  _ He'd told her one day when she'd mustered up the courage to ask.  _ "Something about finally having permission from the government to let us work. We're becoming more popular too, so Dad decided to was time it was time we became proper heroes." _

Vanya had smiled then. " _ That much be nice," _ She'd said because traveling the world sounded nice. Nicer than the walls around her and the dark halls suffocating her. " _ To be so popular, I mean. You get to see the world and save people. That sounds... nice." _

_ "I wish I could come,"  _ She added more softly, wistfully. But she knew by now she couldn't go with him. Not in a million years.

Ben had given her that smile again. The one that made his eyes all soft and the edges of his lips to twitch downwards. Somehow, with the dried blood stained onto his skin, it made it look more.... sad.

_ "It's not that great," _ He'd said with a lilt, like he was trying to be humorous but the red still stained on his face and the dark bags under his eyes failed that illusion.  _ "We never actually get to see anything. All we do is fight bad guys and then come home. If anything, the only thing we do see is less sleep." _

He'd looked at Klaus' door when he'd said that. And, well, that answered her question on how Klaus' was doing- which was just as bad as all her other siblings. 

It wasn't the first time that day she'd daydreamed on  _ her  _ being a superhero one day nor would it be the last. But if she was, then she could help her siblings. If she was one, then she'd be able to travel with them around the world and see cool things and meet people and be an actual member of the Umbrella Academy.

And that would be nice.

The image of someone flickering her head flickered into her mind, followed by the exasperated words of:  _ "Don't be stupid. You'd never make it out there. You can barely squash a bug, much less punch a guy." _

The words were familiar and the ghost of pain on the center of her forehead all but brought those illusions crumbling down. When she'd made to rebuttal Ben, even she could tell her heart wasn't in it. Ben must have heard it too because he gave her another one of those smiles that had her radiating discomfort and gave her the urge to slither back into her room. 

She found out rather quicker, as well, that she didn't like those smiles Ben gave. It was too sad looking.

It was even worse when he tried to reassure her.  _ "It's okay," _ He said, eyes tired and shoulders sagging. She wondered if he noticed how exhausted he looked.  _ "Having you here is better. It means you're okay, and that's a good thing." _

The way he said that.. it had sounded  _ off _ . She had a feeling he was alluding to something but she couldn't grasp what exactly it was. When she tried, all she could think of was-

Vanya had all but blurted out a meek,  _ "He's coming back, someday." _ And all Ben did was give her that same damn smile. 

She couldn't help but close her door that night. She tried not too and she ever rarely did, but that night, she couldn't face her siblings- muttering and grumpy and tired but there- when it felt so wrong. Not when it was so strikingly obvious who was missing. 

_ (It was hard, even after a year, to not hear the warbly 'pop' rattle outside her door or the snarkish tone she'd hear directed at Luther or Diego or the exasperated tone mixed in with Klaus' laughter or the chair so silent next to hers at the dinner table.  _

_ It was hard. _

_ When was he coming back-) _

Loud stomping alerts Vanya to the franticness upstairs, her father's voice is clear incorporation to the frenetic sounds.

“Hurry it up, children! A jewelry store robbery was said to be in progress five minutes ago, and by the time you’ve all properly prepared yourselves, they’ll be long gone! How can we expect to be the Umbrella Academy if we can’t even leave this house on time!” Her father’s voice bounces off the wall, steady and booming. He sounds angry disappointed, an interesting combination; it was practically oozing from the walls. 

At least, that’s what she thinks she’s hearing. It’s hard to tell sometimes. She's never seen a time where her father  _ wasn't  _ disappointed.

Disappointment is Dad’s usual default tone; flat, monotoned, and full of displeasure. Dad’s voice was always one that commanded every aspect of your attention. It was one she heard when he scolded Klaus over his late-night, not-so-sneaky rendezvous he somehow knew about. It’s what she hears after unsuccessful missions. It was what she heard whenever she missed a note during her performances. 

It's always the same too: A deep frown, chine tilted upwards, cold eyes staring down at you, and voice sharp as he gave you a blunt critique of another failed attempt at playing Phantom of the Opera.

It’s actually what she just saw five seconds before Dad had marched upstairs at the sound of the raging alarm. 

And no matter how many times she saw it, Vanya still got the urge to hide away and make herself as small as possible.

After all, her father never appreciated weakness. Looking down when talking was unacceptable. Mumbling in a conversation was a crime. Not maintaining eye contact was met with harsh retribution.

Not that she ever had to deal with that. The worse punishment she had gotten was going to her room without dinner- and was because she had spoken at the table during dinner.

_ (When is Five coming back-) _

Vanya sighs as she listens to the chaos happening upstairs. Something crashes. Allison yelps. Klaus snickers. She's pretty sure Deigo is running around for some reason. Luther is surprisingly quiet-  _ "Come on, guys! We have to go!" _

Never mind.

_ (He would have gotten down here quicker. She's sure. If he were here still.) _

Her evaluation last time was a total failure. Again. But she’ll play better this time. She has to. Else Dad might think she’s a lost cause and take her violin away from her and she doesn't, with all her heart, want that. This was her only way of being something extraordinary. Of being  _ something _ . 

If she couldn’t do this, then what could she do?

Nothing- is what it will be if she flunks her next evaluation. And she doesn’t want to be that anymore; being nothing is worse than being invisible in a family of superheroes because then it means she's untalented and destined to fail no matter what she does and no matter how hard she tries She desperately wants to be  _ good _ at something. 

_ (And she wants to be  _ something _. If not a hero- if she can't get powers- then she can at least play an instrument well. Then she'll be good at something. Then she'll have something rather than nothing.  _

_ Then she'll be something more than a ghost drifting in a house.) _

Heels click noisily beside her. Vanya turns away from the empty entrance hall to the humming figure daintily dusting the bookshelf.

“Ah, Vanya. Good afternoon, sweetie,” Mom says as she dusts off the many tables in the living room. "How did your evaluations go?" 

Vanya's eyes find their way to the floor. It's shiny and spotless. 

She hears Grace hum, low and soft. "Not to worry, dear, you'll play better next time. I just know it."

Vanya lifts her head up just a tab to see Mom's smiling face peering down at her. Mom's words always made something flutter inside her, though it was a rare thing to feel. Mom was usually busy cleaning and cooking and patching up her siblings, not to mention Diego's constant presence practically glued to their mother's side. It made spending time with her hard to get, so every conversation she had was something nice to Vanya.

Except for today, because as much as she loved her mother's encouragement, she couldn't help but hear the wrong notes she played.

"I messed up on the second stanza," Vanya muttered, something heavy and damp drenching her mood. Not that it was ever good to begin with. 

“And also the thirteenth stanza. You also missed a vibrato in stanza sixteen. But it's okay, mistakes happen. You just need to practice more, is all.”

Her aching fingers twitched at her sides. The thought of practicing right now, just after rehearsal, made something.... whelming pit-patter within her.

Vanya felt a bit queasy at the sudden bout of... feeling sprouting from nowhere. Maybe it was her medication. Dad said it was for her anxiety. Maybe she needed another pill... but the thought of having something bitter and chalky slid down her throat made her uneasy again. 

Vanya feels a hand land on her shoulder. It's cold, but not freezing. Warm, but not overly hot. The hand feels... not fake, but not real. It's present. 

It's enough.

"No need to frown, dear," She hears Mom say. "You'll get it eventually. I just know you will."

Mom’s smile, though artificial, is nice to see. Straight, white teeth framed by pink lips. It’s nice to see- and pretty to look at.

Vanya smiles back, the uncomfortable feeling disappointing to turn into something more... warm. Mom’s encouragement  _ is _ nice. It always is. She just wishes she got to hear it more often.

"Thank you. I'll practice in a bit, "She mutters, eyes sliding to the floor again. Encouragements are nice, yes, but  _ weird _ . It's especially weird to receive them. Not that she gets much of it.

_ (It's incredibly silent in the house sometimes. Not even her violin can cover the absence of voices in the halls.) _

A slender finger pushes her chin up to meet Mom's constant smile. "Chin up, dear. Your father has the highest expectations of you- of all of you. He is, after all, an extraordinary man and he knows that each of you will succeed one day."

Even me?" She thinks and the question flares to life within her mind. Even _ her? _ Even she can be something good one day? And her father believes that?

That's.... 

_ I had hoped you would possess such talents, but it's clear today how much you lack. _

_ That's.... _

_ I expect better from you, Number Seven.... _

Vanya swallows thickly. The question bubbles in her throat. The words converge onto the tip of her tongue. The urge to open her mouth rises as the corner of her lips twitch.

She wants to ask. She  _ desperately _ wants to ask- to know. 

_ What does her father think of her? _

And it burns inside her brain, so utterly distracting that it's as if there's a frantic fire flaring in her brain. Bright and overwhelming and disruptive- that's what the question is in her mind and the smoke is so riveting that she can't focus-

_ All of us? _

The fire dies. The smoke blows away. The coals drown in her throat. The words, searing and burning, fickle away into nothing. Her attention is snatched away and before she can even comprehend why-

"What about Five?"

-She speaks. She speaks and the words feel oddly cold, frozen in a way she thinks- perhaps- she was never meant to ask so freely about him. That maybe she had never meant to utter his name like it was taboo. Because it wasn't-  _ he  _ wasn't. 

_ Such a pity, Number Seven.... _

Out of all her siblings, Five made the most sense. He was temperamental sometimes, snarky, opinionative, and above all, curious. He was always wondering what he could do and why. He wanted to  _ know _ , even if their father didn't approve.

And a part of her thinks maybe he left to do exactly that. A part deep, deep, inside of her. 

Maybe that's why the question felt so numb on her tongue, and why she held her breath as she uttered it? She doesn't know and at this point, she doesn't care because suddenly, she cares about what Mom says.

Mom, who smiled like the sun. Mom, who gave such nice encouragement. Mom, who made her feel warm inside. 

It feels like the world is frozen. Mom is frozen. The chaos upstairs is frozen.

_ (The painting in the living room burns its' gaze into her head. She doesn't look. She never looks at it.) _

Then something thuds above, followed by a string of curses. Dad’s abolishment follows behind quickly. Mom’s smile breaks for a split second as she looks up. 

“My, my,” Mom says as she looks back down at her, her smile back in place. “Your brothers and sister sure are causing a ruckus. They better hurry it up if they want to catch that foul crook, don’t you agree?”

Vanya blinks. Maybe... Mom hadn't heard her? Yeah, that sounds right because Mom would never  _ not  _ answer her because she was  _ Mom,  _ and Mom was never- 

_ (-There,' Something finishes for her. Something heated and smoking and angry. 'She was never there. She never is-') _

More stomps scramble down the hall. Footsteps on the staircase. Then Luther and Diego pop into view, breathing hard like they’ve run a marathon.

Vanya blinks at the sudden intrusion. She had almost forgotten about the mission that they may or may not be late to...

She frowned. That wasn't important now, though, because Mom hadn't answered her question. She turned back around, about to ask Mom again.

Except Mom wasn't looking at her anymore.

"Now boys," Mom said sternly as she stepped into the entrance hall. "There's no need for dallying about. Last I heard, you were needed in downtown."

Vanya looked back around to see Luther and Diego glaring at each other. She blinked again. Had she missed something? She looked to Mom for an answer, but the android was already hovering over her brothers' masks. 

The sight made something clench inside her chest.

_ (She still hadn't answered her question.) _

"Good luck, boys.” She heard Mom usher, nudging her brothers towards the door. Probably to the car. She could only guess Pogo had driven the car around. "And try to be civil. Your father had allowed a live interview after the mission and he wants you kids on your best behavior."

Luther and Diego nodded, a bit reluctantly. Well, more so Diego, who can’t help but send one last glare at Luther. Vanya absentmindedly wonders why before remembering her brother is usually like this nowadays; it was as if all Luther and Diego did was argue and one-up each other. It was nerve-wracking to see, especially when things got too heated.

It makes bittersweet gratitude swell in her heart. Thank goodness for Mom. She ever liked it when her brothers argued, much less Diego. He was always mad nowadays.

_ (Though it wasn’t usually the two of them. Sometimes, it would be three, and he was always never backed down from Diego’s not-so-subtle taunts, especially if Luther was unconsciously egging it along.) _

“Okay, Mom,” Diego mutters. He forces his eyes away from Luther’s and onto shoving his gloves onto his hands.

“We'll be on our best behavior,” Luther parrots and it’s not hard to miss the furrowed eyebrows still stubbornly sticking to his face. He’s still irate, but he won’t say anything, not when Dad had given them an order.

Or, well, a second-hand order.

But it seems to be good enough for Mom.

“Good,” Grace says with a nod. “Now, off you go. The Umbrella Academy is approximately five minutes and seven seconds late to the bank robbery downtown and punctuality is a fundamental requirement for a successful mission. Plus, Vanya was planning on practicing for the remainder of the day, weren't you sweetie?”

Vanya cringes as she feels her brother’s eyes slide over her. Discomfort squirmed in her stomach and she made herself meet their eyes. The violin case felt heavy in her hand and she could feel the soreness in her fingers pulse against the rough leather of the handle.

They didn't look annoyed to see her there, but there was a furrow in Diego's eyebrows as he blinked at her. It should have made her feel better that they had just noticed her, but Luther's painfully awkward expression made something twist in her guts. Or maybe that was her actual guts all twisted up. Either way, the discomfiture was  _ palpable _ in the air; in the scuffle of her shoes and the red burning her ears.

In a way, it felt wrong to do something so mundane while her siblings were going out to make the world a better place. It felt wrong to relax. To sit upstairs in her safe room and practice an instrument and the worse thing that could happen was cutting her sore calluses and that felt so  _ wrong  _ when Luther and Diego went out to fight and bleed and serve knuckle sandwiches to armed men. 

It felt wrong, shamefully so.

She lowered her head. Long brown hair tumbled down her shoulder and Vanya wished she had enough to hide behind.

Diego grunts as he scuffles his shoe. It makes a harsh  _ squeak  _ on the polished floor. “Well, good for  _ her  _ then.” He mutters but it sounds shrill in her ears.

"Um," Luther says. "Uh, yeah. Good for... her. That's, uh good. Yeah."

Her knuckles are white clutched around the case. Her ears burn, and so does her face and she can practically imagine the redness on her face. Scarlet red. Marron red. Fire red, like lave bubbling on the surface. Tiny prickles ghost along her arms and her neck feels scorched, and she wonders if she's sweating under her uniform. She wonders if they can see it. Maybe they can. 

She must be a sorry sight to behold.

The case handle feels moist under her grip and her face feels prickly and she's pretty sure she just felt a bead of sweat roll down her face. Her stomach feels queasy, sickeningly so, and she wonders if the pill is still there, sitting in her stomach acid. She wonders if it's dissolved yet because she desperately wishes she didn't feel  _ so _ ... jittery. 

Anything to make her ignorant of the attention drawn to her.

_ ('Why?' A part of her wonders. 'Why? They're finally looking at us. Why would you want that to go away? They never look at us, they never give s a second glance and now they're looking at us and they're finally paying attention to us and-') _

And now, she expects them to leave. 

She can see it now. Diego will mutter something inaudible and Luther will stand in place stiffly, expression twisted into something painfully awkward and eyes looking at anything but her, and then they'll just... walk outside. Dad was expecting them and they have better things to do than talk to her. Like an armed jewelry robbery, for one.

But out of all of them, Luther is the one to surprise her. “Shut it, Diego.” He begins, and it’s hard not to miss the shuffle of his feet and the uneasy tightness of his lips. “You know she can’t help it. She’s normal, remember? She’s not like the rest of us.”

Normal. 

_ 'Huh,'  _ She blinks.  _ 'That's a new one.'  _ She's heard ordinary, useless, and bland. But never  _ normal _ . 

It should have been obvious for Diego to retaliate. He's been touchy a lot these days. He snaps his head back towards Luther’s, a heavy frown on his face. “Well that's nice!” he snaps. “At least someone in this house gets to do nothing but play some dumb instrument while the rest of us train hours in a day just to please our dear ol’ dad. Good thing she’s  _ normal  _ enough to stay home all day while we go out for missions.”

Luther’s face grows a shade redder, vibrant and dark. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m Number One, remember? Show some respect.”

Vanya feels frozen as she watches the tension grow and grow. It’s like a fire rising. A fight getting ready to start. Thunder roaring in the distance and rain dripping down. 

Mom, thankfully, isn’t.

Grace frowns and steps closer. “Boys-“

“That’s a fucking truckload of baloney and you know it. Just because  _ daddy  _ gave you a number means I should listen to you like some obedient pet? Well fuck you, Number One!”

“That’s exactly why!” Luther shouts, adding fuel to the fire. “Because Dad said so and what dad says-“

“-Is law. Right? Is that what you were gonna say?” Diego’s glare is sharp and the snarl on his face is like his knives, sharp and ready to stab. 

“Good thing to know. What's next? Dad has the fucking answer to world peace? Guess everyone's gonna start living in harmony now, huh? Kumbaya, right?” Diego sneers. “Well, here’s some news for you- not everyone follows Daddy’s words like some sort of desperate dog and, in case you forgot it in that thick skull of yours, that painting should be enough to remember that.”

_ (Vanya tries very hard not to look around. To turn and see the face that looks so much like her brother but so wrong at the same time. To see such a foreign expression on his face... it makes her want to tear it off the wall.) _

Then Luther speaks, and some secret line is crossed. Something is breached. Something is broken and it's a harsh stench in the air. 

“What Five did was his choice and it was a wrong one. He left the Umbrella Academy. He disobeyed Dad and for all we know, he’s as good as dead now. He's not coming back. We have a mission and a purpose to be heroes and if you can’t handle it, you can join him and have your own painting made just like him.”

There’s a pause in the air. Something silent and unbroken. None of her siblings have mentioned much of their brother. If they had, it was in the privacy of their own worlds. It felt like some sort of taboo to speak of it otherwise.

And… and… Vanya….

She breathes in. And out.

In and out.

In. And out.

In.

And out.

She barely notices the shakiness in her hands. The prickly goosebumps morphing into bubbling heat all over her skin. The red of her face burning and burning and  _ burning _ . She doesn’t register stepping forward nor the red in her vision. All she knows is the fire burning in her chest, the smoke in her lungs, and the taste of ash and embers on her tongue. The words on the tip of her tongue are  _ scorching _ .

She takes a step forward and in the silence, her footfall is booming. 

Luther looks over at her and the fire in her blazes at the wide-eyed stare he gives her. 

_ ('He forgot you were there,' Something inside her sneers.) _

The buzz in her ear becomes shrill. It makes her blood roar.

And she so desperately wants to yell, to give him a piece of her mind. She should! Maybe then, he'll look at her. Maybe then, he'll listen to her. Maybe then, he'll realize how  _ stupid he is in thinking their brother is gone when he's  _ **_ not _ ** _. _

And so she opens her mouth, the burning coal hot on her tongue and...  _ and...  _

Something red moves out of the corner of her eye. Vanya glances away for a quick second-

Mom's staring, red lips in a frown. Diego's staring, his expression twisted into something painfully confused.

_ ('They're staring,' A whisper caresses her ear, painfully tiny. 'I wish they would stop.') _

And it's funny how fast the burning fire in her chest, on her tongue, in the breath of her lungs, grows into something overwhelming.

How her chest becomes tight, how her tongue becomes a burnt piece of charcoal, and how clogged her lungs seem to breathe because breathing is getting hard and maybe she  _ shouldn't  _ yell at her brother and along with that, maybe she should just  _ shut up _ and disappear into the background again because she  _ hates _ the feeling of their eyes on her- like lava bubbling on her skin-  _ but Five is coming back, can't he see why can't he see- _

"Oh, uh, Vanya... Did you, uh, need something?" Luther asks her and for a second, Vanya feels frozen by his voice.

It sounds so...  _ awkward _ .

_ ('It makes her blood warm just a bit, but enough to get her the word out of her mouth.') _

“He’s coming back.” She says, short and simple. Bitter and sad. Hurt and agonizing. “I know he is. He will. He always does.”

And it's true.

He always left when he was mad, angry, and upset. He always came back and she always waited anxiously until he did with a late-night stroll back to his room in the dead of night. Then at breakfast, it was as if nothing happened. It would be like he was never gone. And he always came back. He will!

_ (He has to.) _

It's just.... why can't anyone else see that?

Luther gives her such a  _ pitiful _ look, and then he says: “No. He’s not.”

_ ('It looks so much like Ben's soft-eyed, small-smile look and oh how that look makes her feel so  _ pathetic _.') _

And then....

And then he turns back to Diego and everything  _ snaps _ .

The buzz shrills in her ear like a sharp note. Her skin bubbles and prickles like a volcano. Her chest burns and rages and ignites like an inferno. It agonizes inside of her and makes her blood boil and her heart scream and it's so  _ overwhelming  _ but oh, how she  _ likes  _ it... and...

Suddenly, everything is sharper.

Everything is clear.

Everything is like... playing a song perfectly on her violin and like sliding her bow staff onto a wrong note at the same time.

Everything feels  _ right _ . 

She feels in the shrill screaming in her ears. Feels it thumping inside her heart. Taste it sharply on her tongue. And then-

There’s a crash. Something heavy thuds onto the ground, enough to make the floorboards groan and tremble.

“Oh dear!” Mom exclaims as she hastily rushes to something behind her. Vanya blinks. She turns around. 

...

She blinks again.

Right there, lying face down, is a large portrait. She can't see the painting, nor the name embedded into the frame, but she knows who the painting exhibits.

Which, first off, is weird because how did it fall-

“Number One. Number Two. What is the meaning of this?” Dad’s voice booms and Vanya's head whips around to the entrance hall. Her father is standing there and there's something stormy on his face. She feels the anger leave her as fast as it had come and before she knows it, all she's left with is smoldering smoke and glowing ash.

She's never felt so tired in her life. She doesn’t remember the last time she was mad. She doesn’t remember the last time she was so  _ angry _ . 

She doesn't remember it feeling so  _ overwhelming _ .

Luther’s mouth falls open and closes. It looks like a fish gasping for air. “Nothing! We were just-“

“Wasting time? Bah! In case you've forgotten, there’s an armed robbery in progress and I said everyone outside approximately two minutes ago. Now, go on!”

Luther is walking in a flash. Diego cast Vanya one last glance she tries not to notice before he, too, heads out the door. And just like that, the tension is gone. Disappears. Dissipates.

Vanya keeps her head down.

She hears Mom dusting something rough. Hears Luther’s lumbering feet walk out the door. Hears Diego slam the door. But she doesn’t hear Dad leave.

“Number Seven,” He says and she snaps her head up. She feels gross and sweaty and red-faced and tired. She hopes he doesn't see it. “When was the last time you took your medicine?”

She blinks. That.. wasn't what she was expecting. “This morning. Like I do every day.”

Her dad hums. Leaves. And that’s that.

No more nothing. She’s dismissed. Pushed away. Shoved aside.

She breathes. In and out.

In and out.

The words taste burnt on her tongue. They feel rough and chalky as they slide out of her mouth.

“Hey, Mom?” She hears herself ask. Or maybe she hadn't. But Mom's attentive hum tells her that, yes, she had spoken, but she's too busy staring at the place her father was in an odd stupor. “Do you think Five will come back?”

She wonders what she sounds like. She wonders why she asked that.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom coos and she feels her heart stutter. “Why don’t you play me your piece. I would love to hear it, now that all your siblings are out. Wouldn't you like that?” She says.

Vanya breathes. In and out.

In and out.

In.

Out.

Her hands shake as she picks up her violin. She doesn't remember dropping it. 

She remembers her brothers fighting, the dismissal, sees her dad leaving her again and again and again.

She remembers the heat of the fire inside her, the hot coal on her tongue, the lava bubbling on her skin, the shrill in her ear, and the blood boiling under her skin. She remembers the heat and the flames and the smoke steaming out of her mouth. She remembers the way her heart thumped in her chest. She remembers that overwhelming anger. 

She didn't like it.

She loved it and it makes something whimper insider her because she was supposed to be obedient, boring, Number Seven and Number Seven never spoke out of line or talked back.

_ ('Someone used to,' Something reminded her. 'But he's not here right now.') _

She hears wood clank against each other. How the duster sweeps against the polished floors with a soft swish. She turns around. Mom's sweeping up broken splinters of wood off the floor. There's a noticeable dent in the floorboards.

“Mom,” She calls out softly, taking a step towards her. “I can help.“

If only to do something. It feels as if she's never done anything worthwhile in all her years in this house. It's hard not to when your siblings are heroes that fight crime and you're an ordinary girl who'd day consist of playing an instrument and taking medication.

And besides, Mom does everything in this house. She cleans. She cooks. She fixes their beds daily. And Pogo, for all the times she gets to talk to him, is doing tasks for her father.

“Don’t be silly, Number Seven.” Mom turns to her with a smile. “It’s no problem at all. Everyone has a little mishap every now and then. Now, why don’t you go practice your violin as your father asked. I would love to hear a performance of Phantom of the Opera. What do you say?”

Mishap? But she hadn't done anything to knock over the large painting.

"What do you mean? I thought it fell on its' own?"

Mom stares at her for a long time. The smile is a permanent fixture on her face, but the corner of her red lips twitch. 

Vanya frowns. 

"Of course!" Mom says as she stands up. Her dress disturbs the wood debris on the floor. "How silly of me! Hey, here's a thought. Why don't you go take out your violin and we'll have a little performance stage- just the two of us! Just give me a minute to clean up this little mis-accident."

Vanya blinks. Mom stuttered. Mom  _ corrected  _ herself. Was something wrong with her? 

But she doesn't get to think about it as she's hastily urged out of the living room.

"Hurry along now," She hears Mom say as she gently pushes her along. "I'll let you know when I'm done."

Vanya nods and lets her feet be lead out the door. 

In the entrance hall, it's quiet. The others must have gone out the door when she wasn't looking. No sound echoes through the halls and it's funny how, only a few minutes ago, her siblings were wreaking havoc as they readied themselves for their mission.

She's heard it so many times before, but every time she hears nothing, she can't help but think about how empty the house sounds. 

_ 'Maybe practicing will help,'  _ She thinks.  _ 'Mom did say she wanted me to play for her.' _

And it was so rare that she played for anyone besides her father.

Yet...

Her hands ache from the hours spent playing for her father just before the alarm for the mission. Her arms hang loosely at her side, sore and tired. Her shoulders feel stiff and her back aches from standing poised for hours on end. Her fingers, calloused and rugged and ugly, grip the case tightly in her grasp.

Vanya stands there, lost and conflicted and most of all, so very aware of her place in this soundless house.

Her place... it was nothing.

It was nothing but going to her lessons while her siblings trained. It was playing an instrument to fill the silence of the house while her siblings went out to fight crime. It was nothing but watching her siblings walk out the front door while she stayed rooted to the spot. 

It was nothing. It was humiliating. It was lonely.

_ He left the Umbrella Academy, he disobeyed Dad and for all we know, he’s gone now because of it and he’s never coming back. _

Something cold and hollow beats in her chest. It’s a silent thud, but the gaping emptiness it leaves makes all the lingering anger, the bitter loneliness, and the utter helplessness slowly drop away. Disappear. Get swallowed up by the dark sea inside.

The portrait in the next room seems to burn into her brain, shining a light onto her head until she turns around and  _ looks _ . It’s a cry begging for her attention. A firecracker going off next to her ear. It’s a bag of cocaine to an addict.

Its presence is so hard to ignore.

Vanya shuffles on her feet.

“Hey Mom,” She whispers to herself, so quietly and so hushed. The silence of the entrance hall barely stirs with her soft voice. Not even the clicking of Mom's heels and her melodious hum in the next room disturbs it. “Do you think… He’s coming back, right?”

Her voice sounds meek in her ears. Stupid. Childish. Utterly unimportant.

It sounds as silent as the house itself.

Mom hums as she busies herself with cleaning up, the  _ swish, swish _ of the duster loud in her ears. 

It was as if she never even heard her. And how could she? No one ever really does.

"Ah, Vanya," She hears Mom call out to her. A hand lands on her shoulder. It's oddly cold. "I thought you were going to take out your violin, sweetie?"

Vanya glances at her. Mom smiles at her, a flash of pretty white teeth framed by ruby red lips. As she nods and breaks away from her robotic mother, Vanya can’t help but imagine warm, living hands resting on her shoulder instead of cold, synthetic ones. 

Her fingers loosen their hold on the handle. Her hand starts to ache.

“The weather sure looks lovely today, don’t you agree, dear?” Mom says as she guides her to the living room. The floor is pristine and the painting is hanging back up on the wall. The only reminder there was ever a mishap in the first place is the dent in the floorboards. “And a perfect time for a mission. A mild 75 degrees with a 10% of precipitation.”

Vanya nods.

_ (She tries her hardest to ignore the large portrait hanging over them.) _

“Now,” Mom says, withdrawing her hand. Her shoulder still feels cold, like the hand was never there to begin with. “Let's hear you play. Your father remarked a few things about what you needed to improve on, as well as some stanzas you could practice more. So let's get to it, okay?” Mom looks down at her and something inside Vanya simpers and boils at the almost genuine smile on her face.

So genuine, it could pass off for being real.

Any other time, that smile would be enough to make her take out her violin. It would be enough to make her spend hours playing with sore, callused fingers. It would be enough to make want to  _ please _ , and for that, something warm flickers in Vanya.

A frown tugs at Vanya's lips. The case in her grasp rattles slightly. The silence of the house dulls at the ringing in her ears.

"Well?" Mom asks her, her red smile plastered on her face. She tilts her head towards the case in Vanya's tight grip. Her smile doesn't waver.

For the second time that day, she's angry. 

She can tell because it's just as overwhelming as it was before but not quite. It's not like earlier, where she felt lava bubbling all over her skin, red searing her face, and moist leaking from her palms. No, it’s different. Warm- but not too warm. Bubbling- but not boiling, just… simpering. Like the soup Mom makes for dinner sometimes. It feels like anger…. But it’s not. It’s... not as bad. 

Usually, when she gets upset or nervous, her pills are there to dull down any unwanted feelings, but she doesn’t mind feeling this.

Not at all because for the first time in her life, she feels  _ clarity _ .

For the first time in her meager life, she understands and feels in a way that's not suffocating, but liberating.

For the first time, she knows what she's feeling and it's funny: she doesn't want to play her violin. She doesn't want to give a performance. 

"No," She says and it feels like giddiness to say the word, to feel it roll off her tongue. "I don't feel like playing today."

Mom's smile flickers and that fire in Vanya  _ grows _ . 

Mom fixes her smile.

"But Vanya," She begins. "Practicing is important, dear. It gives you a 95 percent chance of excelling and you know how important it is to your father to be doing your best. You are, after all, exceptional children and he holds the highest expectations for you all and nothing else."

Vanya frowns this time and the buzz in her ear grows shrill, the fire inside blooms hot-white, and the trembling in her hand rumbles because... because...

"You're repeating yourself," She whispers, but it sounds as loud as a thunder strike. "You said that earlier today, but it's not true."

Mom frowns now. Vanya can practically hear the gears turning in her head. Somehow, that makes the shrill in her ears boom.

"Of course it is, dear." Mom lays a hand on her shoulder and the sound of her perfect nails clicking together is like a bomb going off. "Your father-"

The deafening ringing in her ears drowns the pointless speech. Not that she cares; she can't, not when her hands are shaking and her heart is thump-thump-thumping and certainly not when she feels so clearly of the rage burning her up on the inside, just  _ waiting to be let out. _

So she does.

It feels like freedom, to feel so  _ freely  _ and not drown in the mere presence of her emotions. It makes her glad she hadn't taken another pill. If she had, she wouldn't have the guts to talk back.

"No." Such a small word and yet, it feels _ so good  _ to say it. To  _ mean  _ it. To relish in it. "No."

Because when had her father ever given her the time of the day for something other than criticizing her for her violin skills? When had he ever told her how proud he was of her? When had he ever expected anything of her without comparing her to the exceptional talent her siblings held since birth?

When had he ever thought of her as something more than just a useless, talentless, ordinary girl?

_ (She remembers, once, long ago when she had asked him to take her with him to her siblings' missions. Not for anything dangerous, because she had long since known she couldn't compare to anything her siblings did. _

_ “Why can’t I go?” She had asked Dad as he was leaving, her hand reaching up to tug on her long waistcoat. “I won’t get in the way, I promise. I can hold the camera or take notes or watch out for anything dangerous or -” _

_ Be of use. Be useful. _

_ Her Dad’s stare had as it was then: cold and unyielding. “Because,” He told her. “Unlike your siblings, you lack a worthwhile power. Not only have they trained to be useful to the world, but they have also trained to be heroes while you, simply put, would be nothing more than a liability. I can not afford to watch over a child while your siblings save the day; Important notes must be taken without any distraction. Now, off we go children.”  _

_ His waistcoat had been yanked from her hands and she was left watching them go. She remembered feeling sad that day as she watched the car drive off. She remembered wishing she had gone when Ben had promised to bring back a souvenir and Five was surely going to tell her what happened and what Tokyo looked like and- _

_ “Come along, Vanya.” Mom had cooed in her ear. “Let's hear the piece your father has you practicing. I would love to hear how well you've been doing so far.” _

_ Vanya had nodded. "But..." She hesitated. "Why can’t I go with them? Dad let me go the first time.” _

_ Mom had smiled at her then as she did now. “Because, dear, you're not like your siblings. That doesn't mean, though, that you should let that stop you from doing your best. Your father expects the best, after all.") _

It was always the same for all of her life. 

"Vanya-" Mom tries again and again  _ and again and Vanya is tired of it. _

**_ "No!" _ ** She yells and it's as if the world explodes. Not literally, but in the figurative ways that matter. Her voice booms past the looming silence that always exited in the house and it echoes through the room and some part of her feels giddy at the fact that her voice is echoing in the halls. It means she's being heard and oh, how  _ nice  _ that feels.

She should do it again. 

So she does.

A part of her cheers at the way her voice echoes around her, like it was always meant to dominate the world around her. Like she was meant to break the silence. It feels nice too; she never knew anger could ever feel nice. She never knew how melodious the shrill in her ears could be. She never knew how musical the beat of her racing heart could be.

Maybe, though, she's not as used to this as she thinks, as her visions grow slightly white. And maybe she should be worried about how hoarse her throat feels and how the floorboards rock under her feet.

But she ignores it because being heard feels  _ right _ .

So much so that she ignores the ache in her hands as she clenches them into fists and the thud of her violin case hitting the ground. She even ignores Mom's stare and the call of her name.

How can she not when it's as if everything feels so  _ right _ and  _ free  _ and.... and...  _ she  _ feels  _ right _ . Not meek or invisible or ordinary but strong and brave and so much more than she could ever describe. 

_ ('Is this how her siblings feel? Is this how it feels to have powers?  _

_ Is this how he felt?  _

_ She should ask, when he gets back?') _

_ “You know she can’t help it. She’s normal, remember? She’s not like the rest of us.” _

That's what Luther said, right? Well, she feels  _ anything  _ but normal right now-

There's a sharp prick in her neck and suddenly, the freedom drains away. The anger is smothered. She drops, her knees crumbling underneath her, and the panic she knows she should feel is pushed back and what's going on and where's Mom  _ and what's happening and why isn't she screaming- _

The world fades to black. Everything grows silent.

As she sinks down into the darkness, she hears a familiar voice say: "I'm sorry, Miss Vanya."

She doesn't get to ask why. She's out before she knows it.

_ ('She doesn’t like the quiet. She never did.') _

* * *

When she wakes, it's to a headache pounding in her head and the night sky greeting her. The moon shines brightly in the darkness of the night and the stars dimly twinkle in the polluted sky.

The first thing she notes is that the window is open. The second is that she's in her room.

The third thing: "How did I get here?"

No one answers her, of course, and she doesn't expect anyone to.

It's oddly silent.

She's about to stand up to open her door- maybe she can find someone- when her door opens. It's Mom.

She feels herself tense up. Why?

"Good night, Vanya dear," Mom greets her with a smile. Usually, she likes Mom's smile but now...."You're up. That's good. You had quite the tumble earlier."

Vanya blinks. She had? She doesn't remember. In fact... she doesn't remember much at all. She remembers something about a mission and practicing and... that's it. Huh. Maybe she hit her head?

"I did?" She regrets opening her mouth because her head retaliates with a vicious headache. "What..."

"Ah, ah, ah," Mom tuts as she offers her something small and white to her. "Medicine first. You know how important getting better is."

Vanya looks down. It's....

"That's not my medication." She frowns, then cringes at the pounding in her head. 

Mom smiles at her. "Your father requested a new one. It'll help you better than the other one. Now, enough talking. Take your medicine so you'll feel better."

She does so.

The pill isn't bitter or chalky on her tongue. It's... smooth and tasteless. She already likes it better than her previous medication.

"Did something happen?" She asks as soon as she's done. "Is that why my head hurts?"

"I'm afraid so, Miss Vanya." A voice says and Vanya is surprised to see Pogo entering her room. "There was an... accident earlier. You were a bit.. ill and you had a... tumble. You should be better now."

"Oh. But what about my new medication? I thought my other one was okay..."

Pogo hesitates. Mom is still smiling. "Well..." he hesitates. "Your father has been requesting we give you a... better prescription as of late. To make you feel better."

Vanya yawns. She feels fine, a little drowsy now, but fine. "Ok."

If Pogo says so, then he must be right.

"I think it's time we take out leave," Mom says. "Vanya needs her rest."

"Of course," Pogo agrees. "And...I apologize for... being missing as of late. I was preparing your new...prescription."

Vanya nods. She's too tired now to talk.

That doesn't mean she doesn't hope they'll stay.

Her door closes with a silent  _ click  _ and she's left in the silence. She doesn't hear her siblings, so they must be out on a mission. She wonders when they'll come back.

She stares out the window, the stench of car exhaust and greasy hot dogs potent through her slightly-ajar window.

She doesn't remember opening it.

Sleep is beginning to catch up to her. Her eyelids are starting to close. Her thoughts are drifting, morphing into dreams of times long ago. Dreams where the halls weren't as quiet and when the silence was filled with laughter and bickering and everything in between. Dreams where she wasn't the only ghost in this house.

Briefly, she wonders why she's thinking this way. 

She blames the silence. 

_ (She always hated silence.) _

Either way, she can't help but remembers a time where her siblings would sneakily leave the house on their late-night donut runs to Griddy’s. It would always start off with Allison, and then Luther was a given to follow, and then Deigo, who said he went because he had nothing better to do but it was really because he liked the raspberry-filled donuts with chocolate icing. 

Klaus had always been impulsive, though Vanya thinks he started going because he didn’t like staying inside much. And Ben went because one, he said liked donuts and two, someone needed to watch Klaus.

Five, on the other hand, went for odd reasons. Sometimes, it was because he liked the hot chocolate the lady there served and sometimes, it was because he wanted a midnight snack that Grace wouldn't let him get. He was always hungry, he told her once.

_ (‘Dad’s been increasing our training routine. Says we need to be prepared for our ‘official debut.’ Or whatever. “ He had told her one afternoon after dinner. They weren't allowed to talk during dinner, but any time after that was free game. _

_ “Is it hard?” She remembered asking. “The training, I mean.” _

_ He had rolled his eyes at her, and then proceeded to huff in that cocky, arrogant way of his. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” He had said, and she could feel the impending rant coming forth. “It’s always special jumps across rooftops or jumping while restrained. I’m tired of that. I want to do more. I can do more. And what’s worse is that he still treats me like I’m a child.” _

_ ‘You are,’ Her brain whispered. ‘You are.’ But she didn’t say that. She never did. It would only make him more upset and Vanya never liked to make anyone upset.  _

_ Instead, she had said: “I’m pretty sure he’ll make it more challenging.” Because she wasn't sure what else to say. Or if she should. _

_ Five snorted. It wasn’t like his usual soft, bemused laughter, but something mocking. Something tense. “As if,” He had muttered, spoken so lowly she had almost missed it. But then he changed the subject with a “Let’s go. I’m pretty sure the others are waiting and I’m getting hungry.” And that was that. _

_ And then he asked Dad to time travel. He went out the door. He never came back.) _

Vanya blinked away the memory. It was funny when she thought about it. She was never really asked to come along, but instead dragged along and she never had the backbone to say no or tell him she was busy. Not that she ever wanted to, but still.

It was never a question of  _ “Do you want to come?” _ but always a statement of  _ “Let’s go.” _ Like it never needed to be asked. It was an automatic decision that she would go. And when she did, no one ever protested her presence. Not that she was ever  _ invited _ to tag along. In fact, she only ever knew about their donut runs until Five dragged her along.

And it was nice, those rare moments where Luther and Deigo weren’t fighting. Where Klaus was clear-eyed and not stinking of cheap beer and tobacco. Where Ben would sneakily steal Allison’s donut and she would laugh, all soft and high pitched. Where Allison would whisper in her ear,  _ ‘Jokes on him, it’s butterscotch icing,’ _ and then she’d giggle at the pinched look on Ben’s face. Where Ben would then try to drop Allsion’s donut onto Five’s plate because he never did care much about the taste, only that they were donuts- free donuts- and filling at most. Where she would see the not-so-secret smirk on her brother's face as he bit the donut with Ben watching, as if the butterscotch icing was the same as the many glazed donuts on his plate.

It was always at a time where the effects of the pills were at their lowest, where it wasn't so hard to smile and giggle and laugh and  _ feel _ . Even when she had felt her nervousness peeking its' ugly head around as they made their way down the block, she found that she didn't mind.

It was nice, those late-night donut runs.

But then debut arrived. Then Five left. Then Klaus got worse and Ben became more stressed and tired and Allison started spending more time with Luther and Deigo started to withdraw from everyone except Mom and the fights became  _ worse _ and more drawn out.

And her? She was just here.

She never got to see Tokyo or Paris or anything of the sort like her siblings. She never got to see what the world was like high above the clouds or the vastness of the ocean.

She didn’t know how to fight. She didn't have powers. She never went on missions nor had to face the many flashes of cameras trained on her. She never knew how it felt to save a person's life. She never knew what it was like to have everyone's eyes on you, to adore you and see just how  _ special _ you were.

She never had that.

All she had was her violin, the pills on her desk, the distant presence of a robotic mother and a chimpanzee, and a portrait she hated looking at. All she had were the potent smell of hotdogs and exhaust that rustled through the tiny crack in her window.

It's funny, now that she thinks about it, how her whole life revolves around the mundanity of the house. How the only things she wakes up for are the expectations of being a good daughter for her father. 

And what's funnier is that the only thing her world consisted of was getting a hint of praise from a man who never gave her a second glance.

That's not even mentioning the siblings she never got to see but wanted more than anything to be involved with their lives.

Even Pogo and Grace left her after a while.

And the  _ funniest  _ part in all of this? The only person who ever gave her the time of day was gone. 

But it was fine because her world wasn't that exciting. It was boring. It was lonely. 

_ ('It was all she had ever known.') _

Something calm settles inside her, like lukewarm water pooling over her body. But it's not pleasant. It's not relaxing. It's sad and mellow and it makes her sink just a bit further into the mattress. It reminds her of the times she spent watching her siblings walk out the front door for a mission. It reminds her of an empty house and of silent halls. It reminds her of late-night donut runs and laughter and a knock at her door.

_ ‘Let’s go,’ _ A familiar voice whispers in her head and it sends something painfully familiar crashing into her heart.

Vanya squeezes her eyes shut. She feels the familiar dip molded into the mattress, the flatness of her head on the pillow. She can smell the spots where violin varnish had spilled onto her blanket. 

She also knows that if she opens her eyes, she'll see the night sky, where dim stars twinkle and the moon shines faintly.

Vanya opens her eyes and the dark, dim view of her bedroom greets her. She never needs any light to see how it looks. These small walls had long since been engraved into her skull, the image permanently imprinted into her corneas. It had never changed ever since she was a little girl and she knew it never would.

She would be forever stuck inside these walls, and the thought scared her. She hadn't done much in her life; she was rarely allowed outside, and her father never took her on one of his many planes. One of the only few times she had glimpsed more than this tiny space of a room was at the beginning of her sibling's debut, where her father had begrudgingly allowed her to watch the ongoing bank robbery from up top an abandoned building. 

It was then that she realized just how little her world really was. Her siblings were heroes and she was but a mere violinist. And if that wasn't worse, the kids she had grown up with, been born on the same day as, were  _ special _ \- and she wasn't. She was meek and boring and, most importantly,  _ not _ special.

She always wondered why she never got powers like her siblings and more often than not, she wondered what could have happened if she did have powers.

She would have trained with her siblings. She would have been a part of the Umbrella Academy. She would have had her father's praise rather than his constant disappointment. She would have been a  _ hero _ and she would have done things-  _ good _ things- in her life.

She  _ would _ have- but she's  _ not _ . 

_ (What hurts worse: The what if's or the what are's?) _

Vanya sighs as she stares out the same window at the same view of the same, polluted night sky.

Another funny thing: for as much as she tells herself not to dream, she does it anyway.

It's hard not to when she's had glimpses of what could have been in moments where things had been.

Where, once, she had gone along with her siblings on their late-night donut runs and she had had fun and it hadn't mattered if she had powers or not because donut-eating contests were much more important.

She remembers following her siblings out for those late-night donut runs and how fast her heart had beat, so full of nerves and trepidation. She remembered the taste of humidity in the air, the breeze warm on her skin. She even remembered the  _ tap-tap-tap _ her shoes made as she walked down the concrete sidewalks. 

_ Bu-bump. _ Her heart had gone as she tiptoed down the sidewalk.

_ Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. _

She remembered jumping at every shadow that crossed her path and the quiet stutters of her breath as she held back a yell at the imaginary things in the dark. She had been so scared Dad would pop out of alleyways and passing by cars. Ben had assured her they did this sort of thing a lot, but it did little to assure her of the anxiety she felt festering through her sweaty palms.

It wasn't until Five had stopped in his tracks that she made up her mind.

_ "If you're going to be a baby about this, you'd best walk yourself home now."  _

It only took a second to process before she found herself shaking her head.

She may have been scared, but at the same time, she wanted nothing more than to go. She hadn't done anything so defiant before and as much as it made her heartbeat, excitement at being like her extraordinary siblings was far overpowering than any nervewracking feeling.

It was worth it as she giggled at Diego's stuffed face and Allison's whispering remarks and Ben's loud laughter and Klaus' mischievous grin and Five's snarky comments and Luther's sick face.

If only she could have those small, little moments back.

But....

Vanya looks around at the four walls surrounding her, at the pill bottles sitting on her desk, and the violin sitting on her bed. She thinks of distant siblings and a cold father, of an artificial mother and a distant friend she wants but for some reason, can’t grasp. 

She thinks of late-night donut runs, bickering siblings, and of those odd sensations of warmth blooming in the red of her cheeks and the heart in her chest that was unfamiliar and yet nice at the same time.

_ ‘Let’s go,’  _ The voice whispers to her, as present as the walls around her and as distant as the stars and she swears she had never felt more involved and freer than in on those nights.

She thinks and thinks and _ thinks of thinks. _

She wants to stop. 

The sleep dragging her under answer her wishes.

Vanya falls asleep in a small bed in an empty hallway filled with empty rooms resonating empty sounds and constant silence. 

And still, the empty house creeks on.


	3. Stage 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanya's been having an off day.  
> Her new medication makes her drowsy, her sibling's relationships are on the fritz, and her brother still isn't home. But she won't give up hope- she can't because one day, he would be back. She just knows it.
> 
> But right now, at the moment, all she wants is to play her violin again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I think I'm finding my groove through this odd journey. I feel better about this chapter than my other chapters, which is a good thing.  
> Also, speaking about writing this, I tried something a bit different with writing Allison's powers and the effect is has on the people she uses it on; it's a different take on what I've seen other people write it as and I kinda like it. 
> 
> I'm going to be super honest here, as much as writing this has been a challenge, it's been a good distraction from my current mental health. Which is a good thing because it allows me an outlet of sorts to channel all my emotions into. Also, I just like to write.

Vanya's new medication makes her feel really drowsy,

It’s not anything new by any means; every few years, Dad updated her prescription. She hadn't needed a new medication in a while though. And she had to say, she did not miss the sleepiness that accompanied each new prescription. 

Vanya stared blankly at the music sheet in front of her, seeing the small notes lining the stanzas but not understanding which was which.

Her violin was tucked underneath her chin, but her hand was lazily lifting it up. Her posture was sloppy. Her shoulders were slouched. Her bow staff was held in a loose grip.

Good thing Dad didn't request an evaluation anytime soon. 

She hadn't seen him since her performance the other day. And yes, she did remember- pieces. 

Her memory was foggy about that day and she wasn't quite sure what had happened. She knew Mom was there, so were Luther and Diego. There had been an argument- though it seemed as if there was always some sort of disagreement between her two brothers nowadays. There hadn't been a day that passed- when they were home- that some amount of yelling wasn't echoing through the halls.

Even now, she could hear raised voices piping up from downstairs.

She did her best to ignore it.

It was easy when all you could focus on was the music sheet in front of you and the weight of the violin in your hands.

It was not easy, though, to ignore the ghost of words resurfacing again.

_ ('What Five did was his choice and it was a wrong one. He left the Umbrella Academy. He disobeyed Dad and for all we know, he’s as good as dead now...') _

Vanya hated those words and she hated  _ Luther _ for saying them in the first place and she  _ wanted _ to be  _ mad _ .. _. _

It was hard to stay mad though because he was her brother and he was  _ family _ and you can't stay mad at family.

(She had been telling herself that over and over again.

She wasn't sure it was working.)

So... she wouldn't say she hated Luther. She was just mad. Angry. Furious.

At least, she thinks she feels that way. It's hard to tell when you're too tired to even see what stanza you're on.

In other words, the feeling of anger felt... different. Again, the pieces of the events a few days ago was as it was- pieces. But she remembers the anger. Or, at least she remembers the remnants of what anger should feel like because she knows it's not this.... weak.

Not that she's much of an expert in interrupting her emotions; she can barely handle them on a daily and that was just her nerves. Who knows how poorly she would handle something as overwhelming as anger.

Ben's books said so anyway- that anger was overwhelming and chaotic and wild and passionate. She believed it, of course, because she never had anything to go off of. Though, as of recently, maybe she did have an idea, but it was hard to even think about that day, much less interpret the pieces she held when your body was sluggish and your brain was tired and everything was a drowsy mess.

But just because it's hard to think of something and hard to read music notes doesn't mean it's hard to feel.

Mostly, she feels drowsy. The small, tiny parts not in that category...

It feels like fire simmering underneath her skin and inside her veins. It makes her hands sweat and the violin slip further in her grasp. Almos like her anger, muted as it is, is burning her from the inside.

She wonders if emotions  _ can _ burn. Not like the burning of wood or of Klaus’ weird-looking cigarettes, but one that makes adrenaline pump through her blood in the same fashion that her anxiety makes her jittery and jumpy. One that never makes her feel tired on sleepy nights. It’s one that makes her skin feel like lava under the cool stream of water from her showers. 

She doesn't feel it all the time, only when she sees Luther or Diego. And it's a very sudden feeling. 

It's like fireworks going off underneath her feet, like the floor was crumbling beneath her, and akin to her blood boiling in her veins. So much so, that her world is flipped sideways for a bit because of the sheer bewildering sensation of it all. It’s passionate and anger and fiery and.. and.. something sharp and keen and hollow that makes tears erupt from her eyes. Something bruised buried underneath that fire that screams something deep and gaping, like the usual loneliness and nostalgia she feels every time she sees her siblings go about her day.

What that feeling is.. she doesn’t know.

She just knows the fire she feels cracking her skin every time she hears her brother’s voice. The grind in her teeth each time she sees their forms dart by. The gaping hollowness that breaks down the smoke filling her lungs every time they meet eyes.

It’s ... raw, in those small moments, not as muted or distant.

And.. she likes it. This feeling, the fire in her veins. It’s different- one unlike her usual dull moods of emptiness inside her. It’s nice.

But sometimes, it doesn’t  _ feel  _ nice.

The yelling is getting louder downstairs. 

Vanya grimaces. Dad must have already left for his office, otherwise, there wouldn't be any yelling. But there is, which means it'll get worse before it gets better. If heated arguments  _ can _ get better.

She never liked the silence and she hated the ache in her fingers and the shakiness in her limbs, but she hated the fighting even more. At least then it was easier to mask the quiet. It's hard, though, with all the shouting.

Still, she's willing to try, so she shifts her violin under her chin and plays the first note.

The sound drifts wonderfully in the stillness of her room and, for just a moment, all she hears is her violin. Notes, one by one, played across the strings. It fills the room, as it usually does, with the shrill volume it brings forth. The silence lingering in the lonely hallways elevated the melody and the shouting happening downstairs is thrust into the background. 

_ "-grow up and stop being an asshole already! I gave you an order and I expected it to be followed because I'm-" _

_ "An overbearing, self-righteous, dick with a stick so far up his ass that all the shit is getting shoved up out of his mouth-" _

The fighting is getting worse.

They must be arguing about team training again. Diego and Luther always get riled up when training doesn't go well, Luther more so.

_ (Dad even more.) _

Vanya vaguely hopes Ben is not down there; he was always thrust into playing the middle man role. She didn't want to see his stressed expression on his face when he inevitably failed. 

_ "-and watch your tone, Number Two-" _

_ "Or what, Number One!" _

The shouting is getting louder. They must be headed upstairs. Vanya entertains the idea of checking and her arms are starting to shake, but she's on her tenth stanza and she doesn't want to lose her spot. It's the longest she's been able to play Phantom of the Opera since Dad had first assigned her this piece. That, and she's not keen on opening her door to find out.

_ "That's it, you ass. I've had enough! Shut your mouth now or-" _

_ "Oh, wow. What are you? Dad? Ha, you're fucking hilarious. As if I give a shit on what that bastard says-" _

_ "Hey! Show Dad more respect. You know what? I'm tired of you, thinking you're some big shot-" _

_ "First off, why should that man get a shred of my respect. Two, I give even less of a shit on what you think, daddy's boy!" _

_ "Oh my god, Diego! Either you shut up of I'll make you!" _

Vanya stumbles on the twelfth stanza. Uh oh. That's Allison's voice, which means one thing- and it's nothing good.

An angry Luther and Diego? That's easy to handle. All they do is shout and occasionally get into a brawl. But an angry Allison?

That's anything  _ but _ good.

_ ('Shut up, all of you!' She expects to hear. _

_ She doesn't. The snarl never comes. _

_ She ignores the heavy feeling tugging at her heart at the absent piece so blatantly missing from the ensemble of anger.) _

Vanya's on the twentieth stanza. So far so good. Maybe Allison isn't too mad today. Maybe the fighting will stop and everyone will be quiet and things will be fine-

_ "Come on, guys. Can't you just measure your dicks later? I'm super tired and in urgent need of some 'Me Time,' especially after today's shit show." _

_ "Shut it, Klaus." _

_ "Hey! No need to be all bitchy, sis. I'm trying to help here-" _

Maybe she should open her door and check on everyone? It sounded like things were getting better. At least Luther and Diego had finally stopped yelling. That was a good thing, at least-

_ "I heard a rumor you shut up!" _

Her aching fingers twitch. The next note rings wrong. Her bow staff jerks upwards, causing a sharp shrill to collide with the emotions swelling outside. 

'Crap,' Vanya thinks. She messed up. She needed to start over again. She needed to play the entire piece. 

Vanya's hand trembles as she moves her staff into position. She plays the first note. It sounds in the air. It's wobbly. Her fingers ache. Her violin is moist under her hand. The chinrest is trembling under her head. 

She stops. She plays again.

The first note shrills.

She stops. She plays again.

_ "Hey! What the heck, Allison. Knock it off-" _

_ "I heard a rumor you got out of my sight and stopped talking." _

There's silence, and then there's a  _ bang _ as a door slams close.

The note shrills and shrills  _ and shrills. _

_ Vanya breathes. In and out.  _ Oxygen stutters in her throat as it enters. Her arm is shaking now. Sweat is coating her palms, beading on her forehead, and her uniform feels really hot and was it getting warm in here? Yeah, it must be. It has to be and it's fine. Everything is fine.

Vanya breathes in.

In.

_ In. _

_ "Hey, Allison. Don't do that. You know what Dad said: Don't use our powers on each other-" _

_ "Shut up, Luther. God, all of you are so annoying." _

She tries to play again.

Her hands won't stop shaking. Her ears burn. Her skin feels prickly like there are fire ants crawling all over her skin and her hands won't stop shaking and she really needs to play  _ and her hands keep shaking- _

_ (Maybe she'll ignore it. Maybe she'll leave her alone. Maybe she won't use her powers. Maybe-) _

_ Bang! Bang! _

_ "Vanya! Stop playing that stupid instrument. It's getting on my nerves."  _ She hears muffled through her closed door. Her heart  _ thump-thump-thumps _ in her chest.

"I- sorry." She stutters. Stumbles. Stampers. "Sorry. I just- Dad wants me to practice and-" She should stop talking, but she can't and the words keep pouring and poring and she can't make it stop.

The violin shakes in her hand and she can't lower her other hand in time to stop the bow staff from sliding against the strings. The note cuts through her failure at talking with an agonizing  _ screech _ .

Her heart stammers. 

"Sorry!" She says again. "That was an accident-"

Allison huffs behind the door and Vanya can hear the annoyance lacing her exhale.

And for a second, Vanya thinks Allison's too annoyed to talk to her further. To open her mouth and say something to her and-

_ "I heard a rumor you stopped playing that stupid violin." _

Vanya's hands still on the violin.

It's quiet. It's silent.

Vanya stops. She blinks. She looks down at her violin in her sweaty palms. At the music sheet staring at her. At the bow staff held in her tight grip.

She blinks.

It's quiet.

_ (She always hated the silence.) _

Vanya glances down at her violin again. The bow staff is angled over the strings in a loose grip, the violin tilted underneath her chin. Her shoulders are slouching and her back isn't straight. She needs to correct that; Dad would never allow her to play in such a manner. She should start practicing again too. She needs to get better.

_ (She  _ hates  _ the silence.) _

She straightens up, lifts her chin, and raises her arm to play. The music sheet sits ready on her case, just waiting for her to play and...

...She... doesn't feel like it. 

She doesn't  _ want _ to. She  _ shouldn't _ .

...

Yeah, maybe she shouldn't play today. Maybe she should take a break. She should stop playing for today.

Yeah.... That sounds good.

Vanya sets down her violin until it hangs loosely in her hands. She lowers her bow staff from its' tilted position in her grip with silent relief. Then, all she's left with is her music sheets. She stares at the crinkled sheets in front of her. Phantom of the Opera stares back at her.

It's quiet, the dull buzz of white noise encompassing the thin, compact walls surrounding her small room. It's quiet outside, past the thick wood of her door and in the soundless halls. Faint thuds and whispers come distantly, muffled through her bedroom door, but it might as well just be silence from the almost inaudible words she can't hear. One of her siblings must be talking to each other.

It was probably Allison. Klaus and Diego hadn't uttered a peep since Allison... vented her frustration. Vanya earnestly hoped Luther wouldn't say anything to pestering to Allison, though she doubts Allison would ever do anything to Luther. She never did, even when they were all little and throwing temper tantrums left and right. 

_ 'At least Ben stayed out of it.' _ Vanya muses, listening to the slam of a door through the thin walls of her room and the tell-tale sounds of a lighter flickering to life.  _ 'He knew better than to stand in the warpath of an annoyed Allison.' _

_ (Five would have snapped right back. He liked to say words weren't faster than jumping through the fabric of reality.) _

Powers were always a touchy subject for Vanya, and even more so when the only people she saw on a daily basis- or a weekly basis- could do things she could only dream of. It sucked to be the one normal person in a house full of extraordinary circumstances. It sucked even more to be alone through the whole thing, to only be able to watch your siblings train and use their powers and be something more, while you were tossed to the side with nothing but a bottle of pills and a violin to cover the silence.

And she  _ really _ hated the silence.

The music sheets are glaring at her now. The flicker of a lighter is cut off, and a muffled voice takes its' place.

_ 'That must be Ben,' _ She thinks. _ 'Unless Luther suddenly starts hanging out with Klaus.' _

It's a funny thought, but the humor is ruined by the silence accompanying Ben's nagging. Usually, Klaus made his opinion about the whole nagging known with a frustrated groan or an ill-timed joke. Usually.

Vanya kind of wishes she could hear one now. 

The white noise is distinctively loud in her ears. Her fingers twitch for her violin, but she  _ shouldn't _ and  _ maybe  _ she should take a break from playing today.

But Dad would want her to play. He wanted her to play perfectly on her next evaluation- he expected it. He expected a lot.

_ ‘The performance of a musical piece requires diligence, focus, and most importantly, focus.’  _ Dad’s voice snaps at her. So quiet and yet so present from its’ place in the back of her head.  _ ‘ That’s no excuse to miss your cue, Number Seven. Play it again.' _

_ (Again and again and again and again and-) _

The house is quiet, too quiet. She wishes for something to cut through the sound, something loud and jarring and shrill. 

Her fingers twitch by her sides. Her heart beats a  _ bu-bump bu-bump bu-bump _ \- in her chest, like a rabbit thumping its large feet inside her ribcage. It vibrates through her ears, echoes through her bones, and shrills in her ears.

_ Bu-bump. _

_ Bu-bump. _

_ Bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump- _

The house is quiet.  _ Silent _ .

She  _ really  _ hates the silence.

_ (She wishes there was someone talking to her, like Ben was to Klaus, muffled through the thin walls separating their rooms. _

_ She wishes that person was still here.) _

The silence, it's an odd occurrence. It's something so familiar, and yet something so jarringly strange in the face of the other five bodies off in their own rooms because if her siblings were one thing besides special, it was loud. Rambunctious. Loud. Not... quiet. Never silent. 

She misses the sounds. She misses her violin. She misses her aching fingers and sore back. She misses the yelling that always accompanied Luther and Diego nowadays and she misses the boisterous laughter of Klaus and the terrible jokes she could hear through their thin walls. She misses the anger and loudness and everything that comes with people as special as her siblings because, without it, the house would sound like an unfinished symphony. Like there are pieces missing from this giant, old house. Missing. Runoff.  _ Gone _ .

She  _ hates  _ the silence.

_ (She wonders what's sadder: To miss her dysfunctional family's spats or the miss the ache in her fingers and the soreness in her neck.) _

Suddenly, her hands twitch and her fingers brush up against the smooth exterior of her instrument. She turns her head and her eyes meet the silent instrument lying by her side. Her fingers ghost over the thin strings and she can almost imagine to shrill notes she could play and the sharp pains that would jab at her callused fingers. 

She wants to play, but she's not supposed to and she should take a break today- but she can't help but grab the neck of the violin ad it's almost instinctive to feel her fingers twitch at the touch of the strings of the fingerboard. The desire to lift it up, to play and play and play until the quiet is no more, is strong, but she shouldn't play and yet she wants to except she should take a break today however, she always hated the quiet, and Dad wanted her to get better. 

He  _ expected _ it and he never expected anything from an ordinary, boring, useless girl than this. He shouldn't because she couldn't make people do what she wants like Allison or throw knives like Diego. All she could do was play a part of a song on a violin.

_ ('Don't be an idiot,' A voice murmurs in her head. Like a whisper of a ghost.) _

So she closes her fingers, grips her violin, but she can't tug it forward because her fingers hurt. It wouldn't be good for her to do any more damage to herself, especially since she hasn't let herself take a break, and would it really hurt to not play for one day? Especially since Allison would get mad again and-

Vanya jerks backward. Her violin drops back onto her bed. Her fingers come to clutch at her chest.

Vanya stares at her violin. It stares back.

She...  _ she... _

Vanya breathes in.

In.

_ In. _

_ (She's never been a fan of her sibling's fighting or of the silence permanent in the house, but she's never been scared of the lives accompanying her own. _

_ She's not scared. She never will be. _

_ Five would call her stupid for being scared, that there wasn't anything to be afraid of. Maybe she is. _

_ And she's not afraid, but she thinks, maybe she could. If she let herself be.) _

Vanya breathes. 

Her breath stutters.

She swallows another pill. The rest of the day is a blur.

* * *

The next day arrives. She still has yet to play her violin.

She tries to. She can pick it up. She can hold it. She can carry it.

She can't, however, play it. 

She still tries, though. It's a torturous thing to hold something, but be unable to actually do anything. It made her feel powerless. It made her feel  _ bored _ . 

She takes another pill. She doesn't feel much of anything for the rest of the day. Just tired.

* * *

Another day passes. Another normal, boring day. Another day full of nothing but lessons and meal times and mission alerts.

Breakfast times are the worse, in her opinion. She's used to Klaus' constant chatter over bargaining his bacon for Ben's buttered toast all while stealing Diego's sausage roll right from under his nose. Of Diego's bickering- " _ why Luther gets a second serving when the rest of us can't"- _ and the complaining getting even worse when Allison is able to swipe a roll from Luther's platter.

There's none of that now though. It's been quiet. Silent.

Klaus' time is spent moodily pushing around his cold eggs. He doesn't barter for any of Ben's bacon nor does he steal anything off of Diego's plate, who is and has been glaring at his orange juice for the past few days. Luther, for the most part, doesn't say anything nor does he really do anything with the obvious silence, but he does look vaguely uncomfortable as he eats another spoonful of eggs. Ben doesn't say anything either, and neither does she. That doesn't stop either of them from sharing glances over their moody sibling's heads.

_ (Allison doesn't say anything. She eats, chitchats with Luther, and leaves. Vanya wonders if she sees the way Klaus and Diego are glaring at her. She wonders if her sister even notices it.) _

For the rest of the day, the tension is crackling. 

Vanya can't help but take another pill.

* * *

Another day passes. She still can't move the bow staff along the strings.

Her hands start to shake.

She takes a pill.

* * *

Another day. Her fingers ache and twitch and spasm in pain. She tries and tries and tries to play for four hours.

It's still quiet.

She takes a pill.

* * *

Another day and she can hear voices. People talking, someone laughing. Klaus. That was Klaus laughing. 

That means Allison wasn't mad anymore. 

_ 'That's nice,'  _ she thinks and wonders how long it'll take her to be able to play again. She really misses it. The sleekness of the violin, the rhythm of the bow staff gliding across the strings, and the way the melody would echo in her ear. She even misses the calluses on her fingers. 

It won't be long now. Allison will let her play her violin, she'll practice again, and then everything will be okay.

So she stays in her room and waits. There's nothing to do today, lessons are finishes, and chores are done. There's aren't any missions today and the day has been relatively quiet.

She hopes Allison comes soon. 

She waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The day ends. Another begins. 

* * *

_ Knock. Knock. Knock. _

Vanya snaps her head up at the sudden noise. Her hands tighten their hold on her violin. The strings of the neck dig into her palms.

That must be Allison.

_'Finally,'_ She thinks because of course her sister would come for her. She was just waiting for when she had more time, is all. She is, after all, a superhero, and Vanya had long since memorized her siblings' schedules. Dad must have been holding her up, that's probably why she was late; he was always fascinated with her sister's powers. He was always proud of her.

She wants Dad to be proud of her one day too. She just needs to practice more, is all. Just a few more hours than normal to practice  _ Phantom of the Opera _ and she knows she'll do great in her evaluation. She just knows it.

Her fingers curl against the bow staff by her side. Now, if she could just-

_ ("I heard a rumor you stopped playing that stupid violin.") _

A headache spiked her temples and Vanya yanks her hand back. No, it probably wasn't such a good time to play her violin. Maybe later when Allison lets her.

_ Knock. Knock. Knock. _

...Or maybe later is now.

Vanya mentally curses herself for forgetting the guest at her door. So she swings it open, smile ready on her lips, when she freezes.

Klaus’s grinning face greets her.

“Hey, sis,” He says.

Vanya blinks again.

Words feel shut inside her mouth, trapped behind slack jawed silence and a still tongue. Wide eyes peer at him. The smile on her face dies. The anticipation dissipates, replaced by something cold and light and sudden. It's not necessarily unpleasant, and it's not as overwhelming as anger feels. No, it’s...

Oh. Surprise. She’s surprised.

She hasn't been surprised in a while.

(Nothing much can when you're a prisoner in these cold, dark halls.)

At first, she thinks it's because Klaus isn't Allison. But then again, Klaus being here in general is a bit... sudden. None of her siblings ever really visit her, despite her never telling them not to. Then again, she hasn't exactly told them  _ to  _ visit her either. She’s always seen them walk by, but no one’s ever really stopped by before. Or knocked, much less. 

Not that anyone in this house really knocks.

Allison is a literal star, and every time she enters a room, you’ll know it; She won’t wait for permission, only a warning before she’s barging into the room. Diego, as dramatic as Allison, likes to go in with style- which mostly diverges to greetings in the form of teenage angst and verbal insults. Klaus isn’t as dramatic, though to be fair, she’s not sure when he enters the room. Vanya tries her best to be observant, but she always almost misses Klaus’ presence in the room. Like he’s present one minute and gone the next. Ben, well, does go through like a normal person- if a normal person shies away from the eyes darting towards the newly-entered form entering the room. Luther, for his credit, doesn’t necessarily barge his way in; his loud footsteps are the only greetings he gives. She thinks it’s because he’s trying to make his presence known, make all eyes fall to him immediately in an impression of self-righteousness and status. But honestly, Luther just isn't a quiet person.

Either way, the point is that none of the Hargreeves siblings knock. Their presence is an immediately light in your eyes. Your attention is drawn to them just by them stepping into the room.

Always her siblings. Not her, of course.

Most people don’t look up at her ordinary look; her long brown hair and doe eyes and clean uniform. To any other person on the street, she’s just ordinary. Like them.

Nothing at all like the extraordinary presence of her siblings.

So to see Klaus’ in front of her door so suddenly is surprising, to say the least. Especially when it should have been  _ Allison _ .  _ Allison _ should be here- but she's not. It's just Klaus. Klaus- who is still standing in front of her. While she looked at him like an idiot.

She opens her mouth to say... something. But she can't think of anything. 

She's not sure  _ what _ to say. 

Out of all her siblings, Klaus is the most... interesting.

Not to say she didn’t like him- she did, she liked all her family- but he was intriguing, in a word. It’s a simple word to describe someone who could talk to ghost, but it wasn’t his powers that made him unique. She had caught him more than once trying on Allison's dresses- stealing then, more like it- and then promptly being rumored to bleach his hair. It had lasted for days and no one was happy with the look- Dad especially- but Allison seemed to be particularly gleeful about that.

Though she never knew how upset he was over it. Actually, he never really got upset. He had a sort of flamboyant air around him, as if he didn’t really care about anyone's opinions or Dad’s rules or even their school work. Not to say he wasn’t expressive; He was a play, the costume department, and the special effects all in one.

He never seemed to get mad, but he would smile and laugh and wave off any signs of responsibility and authority similar to Deigo, but not as aggressive. Instead, it was a performance; a montage of masks and smiles and expressive eyes that you knew just by looking at him how he felt.

_ (She could also see the tightness in his smile, the glassy gazed look in his eyes, and the slumped of his shoulders that he had been training all day. They all knew he didn't like his powers. She knew most of all. It was hard not to know when Klaus spent nights writing on the walls. It was hard not to when she heard Dad’s booming voice echo his disappointment. _

_ ‘You’re a shame, Number Four.“ He’d always say, always audible from her perch near the balcony. ‘A failure in the flesh. You let your childish notions of fear stop you from being great. You make me wonder sometimes about the hospitality I bestow upon you. If only you could be something as successful as the other four children in this house.’ _

_ And then there'd be silence.  _

_ But late at night, Vanya would hear him scribbling at the walls, muttering words she could never hear but kept her awake nonetheless. And when he laughed…. Goosebumps would race up her arms and she would think about taking another pill to keep the blooming discomfort back. She never liked that laugh.  _

_ But she always saw Klaus. She knew his fear of his powers, his terrible jokes, the things he kept under his bed, and his dismissive attitude. They all did. It was just better to ignore it than to drown in the half-baked attempts at comfort. How else could you comfort someone who wrote things like ‘She told me her husband slit her throat while they slept,’ On their walls? _

_ But it was what they always did: ignore. Because they didn’t know how to do anything else. Least of all Vanya.) _

Vanya blinks as she focuses back on Klaus. It was getting hard to stay focused, her eyes wondering away at the slightest brush of melancholy. It was like a fog she couldn’t escape. A sea she never knew she had fallen into. A smell in the air you can’t see until it’s in your nose.

At least the calmness was fading away, if the surprise still in her system was anything to go by. The pills always got a little less during the night. It was both nice and bad.

She never liked trying new pills either, but Dad had told her to and she didn’t want to disappoint.

_ (She remembers her anger. The fiery passion ignited at the sound of Luther’s words. The need to do something coursing through her veins- _

_ She remembers the taste of submission of the pill; the bitter and chalky texture of the small medication like rough sand sliding down her throat.  _

_ She doesn’t remember when the anger leaves her with nothing but the watery waves inside her.) _

“So,” Someone shoulders their way into her small room, and the smell of cigarettes and something strong greets her as it passes. It’s enough to make Vanya blink. “What are you doing today, dear sister of mine? What lame, stick-up-their-butt asshole's song did he have you practicing for anyways?”

Oh yeah. Klaus.

She turns around and follows after him. A spike of shame breaks its way past the anxiety medication at the state of her room. It’s a mess, as it always was. Papers scattered on the floor, on her bed, her violin case shoved half-heartedly onto her desk. She quickly makes her way over to her bed and swipes up the papers.

‘Sorry for the mess,” She mutters and tries to ignore the hypervigilance of someone in her room. “I was.... trying to practice a new piece.”

The awkwardness was basically suffocating the room. She could feel it. It was a tangible as wool stitching together her blankets, as present as the clothes on her body, the air in her lungs. 

She breathes and breathes and breathes, but it’s a clog in her throat- this discomfiture she can feel infecting her- and Vanya can feel the heat in her cheeks, the sweatiness of her palms, and the prickliness bubbling on her skin as she watches Klaus. For anything; an eye twitch, a hint of a frown, the glint of his eyes, anything. Anything to show his annoyance because oh, my god, she’s terrible at this.

At what exactly? Socializing? Existing? Talking? Having a decent conversation with a sibling that never shows up anymore? She’s not sure, but that doesn't help the bubbliness of her skin, the sweatiness o her palms, nor the slow rising awkwardness she can feel breaking through the numbness of her pills.

It’s quiet. A silence that drags on and on and on and it feels awful. Like the heat of a spicy pepper. Or like those torture scenes from those rated R movies her siblings and her used to go to when they were small.

Honestly, it's worse than the usual silence of the house. 

_ (Maybe she should take another pill.) _

It wasn't always like this. She knows. She remembers. Things used to be like those late-night donut runs, where they could laugh at each other and not get mad.

_ (When they were closer, ten, and eager to explore and free and not as bitter as they are now. Back to when they were laughing together and seeing how many donuts it took until someone threw up. And when it got late enough, Luther would complain about being home late for dinner. Diego would call him a “ daddy’s boy” and then Klaus would laugh, loud and bright, and Ben would duck his head even though they all knew he was laughing. Then Luther would get all mad and then donuts would be thrown and, sooner or later, pieces of donuts would land on Allison’s hair. She'd fume and join in on their bickering, so much so that other people would start looking over at them. Vanya would watch, just happy to be there, but when Allison, Luther, and Diego squabbled and bantered, she'd lean over. "You did that on purpose." She'd say because she knew. _

_ Five wouldn’t look at her, his eyes glued onto the chocolate almond donut he would be picking at, and say to her, “Why would I? I don't care much about their stupid squabbles. Besides, there wasn't even any icing in Allison's hair and she's making a scene for nothing. They’re making too much noise, the idiots” _

_ And she would smile, and that small bubble of warmth would bloom through, so unfamiliar and yet familiar at the same time and back when her pill dosage wasn’t so high and she could feel something without it being so subtle and so much so like a damp towel. _

_ And then she would look back at their bickering siblings, but not without seeing Five swipe a donut out from under Ben's unsuspecting nose. _

_ It was nice. This was nice.) _

If only it could have stayed that way.

If only Klaus could have stayed so expressive and easy to read and vibrant. A star that had a laugh that sounded like sunshine and a mischievous grin that reminded her so much so of the Chesire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

_ (Back to when Five was here and she wasn't so lonely and sad and numb. Back when it wasn’t so awkward between everyone and there would be someone to break the tension in the way only Five could.) _

Like it was now.

The seconds dragged on.  _ Tick, tock, tick, tock  _ on the clock. The awkwardness was potent in the air.

Vanya shuffled on her feet, trying to discreetly wipe her sweaty palms onto her uniform jacket. Her violin is still sitting on her bed. Her pill bottles are on her nightstand. Her brother is still leaning against her desk.

The silence feels too deafening, too suffocating. Too much like it was with Luther and Allison and Deigo and she didn’t want to same for Ben and Klaus, the only two other siblings whose eyes didn’t pass by her.

Her mouth feels dry when she opens her mouth. Her tongue is a useless lump as she forms words to speak. Speech feels like a chore and words are as fleeting as the wind as she tries to shoot those words out, out,  _ out _ -

_ (“Out with it, “ Her father used to tell her, back when the pills were new and her nerves got the better of her. “Look straight. Don’t break eye contact. And for heaven’s sake, speak up! I shall not tell you again, child. If you can not speak properly in my presence, child, then promptly choose not to speak at all.”) _

_ Out, Out, out- _

_ ('Just say something.' Familiar words ghost in her ear. 'It's not that hard.') _

“So, um, is there anything I can, um, do for you?” She asks and she tries not to wince at the softness of her words. As if they knew how insignificant she was as was promptly exemplified that by the one of her voice and the wobble in her confidence.

But it did the trick when she saw Klaus’ eyes swerve to her and-  _ oh. _

“Um,” She asks nervously, turning around. Nothing there. “Do you, uh, is something bothering you or, uh, see something or-“

And Vanya finally notices something. His eyes are dark, with big eyebags accenting the mascara she knows he stole from Allison.

The prickly sensation crawling over her skin dissipates. The sweatiness dies down to moistness. The frantic beating of her heart lessens.  _ 'Anxiety. _ ' Her mind helpfully supplies, but it feels... less jittery. More... tired.

Hm. Guess that means her new prescription was working.

Either way, that's not what's important right now. It's the reason  _ why  _ she's feeling this way.

It's because Klaus wasn't looking at her. No, he was looking at something behind her. Her brother, a boy who could see ghosts, can’t stop looking behind her with hazy, tired eyes and a slight frown.

The look is gone when she calls out his name again. “New music? Great, great.” He mumbled and his eyes were bright fixtures trained on her, a spotlight beaming into her eyes. It was a sort of hazy light though, a manic glint that Vanya had seen too many times before in the moments of times she’d caught him holed up in the bathroom, weed strong from the room.

_ (‘I think he’s getting worse…’ Ben had whispered to her one night. ‘ And I have no idea what to do.’) _

Neither did she.

“So how’s that going along?” Klaus continued on as if he hadn't heard her playing at all hours of the day.

“Um, fine.” She said warily. But she couldn’t help but smile at him for that. No one really asked her much about her day anymore. Not that anyone ever did. “Dad said I needed to practice more though. He said I wasn’t playing it good enough yet.”

“Is anything ever?” Her brother said. Honestly, nothing is ever good enough for that man. Just last week, I made an exceptional effort in our physical fitness exam. I actually lifted 70 pounds, which is almost as much as Allison, but apparently, I was ' _ not being serious enough _ ." Klaus says, his hands forming visible quotation marks. "He has such a stick up his ass.”

Vanya gave him a small smile. “Don’t tell me you told him that?”

Klaus may not be Allison, but she doesn't mind anymore. It wasn’t every day one of her siblings told them about their day and she had to admit, this was nice. Usually, Klaus was off either out of the house or tagging along with Ben and on occasion, Diego, as odd as it sounds.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Klaus usually rambled, and god Vanya forgot how much she missed it. How much she missed talking to her siblings. “And I was right! You should have seen his face! It was as red as a tomato. But anyway, back to me, I have to tell you, lifting 70 pounds is awesome. I mean, I know a guy off of Twelve Avenue near that new department store that lifted 150 once. You should see the arms on that guy; it’s very impressive, both the guy and the amount of weight lifting. It’s funny cause he takes opioids, which sucks for him. I heard it’s rather numbing... or something like that. Hey, you think maybe I should try that-“

Vanya frowned. It wasn't that she didn't like Klaus, but she didn't particularly like where this conversation was going. So she tried to redirect it the only way she knew.

“Klaus,” She interrupted him and his eyes lasered on her. She stuttered on her words. “Um, not that I don’t like you being here but.. why are you here?”

He blinked at her for a second, a small inch of a millisecond to pause and stare. Then he smiled, bright and all teeth. It looked painful. “Why, can’t I visit my sister? In my own house? Vanya, how could you?”

“It- it’s not that!” She was quick to say when she saw him standing up. She didn’t want him to leave, not yet. “I was just wondering. You don’t have to go.”

_ (Please.) _

Klaus looks at her again. And that’s when Vanya sees it.

The red tinge around his eyes. The sweat coating his face. The manic dilated pupils staring her down. The way he keeps flexing his fingers, the way his foot keeps tapping an uneven rhythm onto the carpet, and the way his eyes keep moving. As if they’re roaming around, looking at something invisible to her eye. And... did he look...  _ skinnier _ somehow?

She’s not immune to Klaus’ state; the constant presence of a bottle hidden under his bed and the weed he keeps in his pocket. The random pills he keeps in a sock in his drawer. That’s not even mentioning the smell of his breath.

“Hey, Klaus..” She begins, but the words are hard to get out. 

What does she say? What can she do? Ben’s usually the one to do this sort of thing, but she doesn’t know what to do. Should she ask him? Should she even mention it? He’s annoyed enough when Ben nags him, but her? Someone that wasn't Ben? She’s not sure how he’ll react. But still… he doesn't look good.

_ (If only Five were still here. He would know what to do, what to say. If only he would come home sooner. _

_ When was he coming back?) _

“Yeah?” Klaus asks from her desk, currently looking at her nightstand, around her room, and at her violin. He must be curious about her room.

A small ball of shame curls into itself for a second. She's aware of how.. bare her room is, but she never actually thought about how it might look. She just likes… minimalistic things. That’s all.

“Um,” She better get this over with before she loses more of her nerves. Or her courage. “Are you, um, okay? You don’t look… good.”

The words are sharp and bitter as they slide out and Vanya immediately winces as it slides off her tongue. God, she hadn’t meant to sound so judgy. He’s going to be so mad at her, she just knows it. She should have kept her mouth shut.

_ (If only Allison had come instead. Then she could play and ignore the world and the silence in the house and the terrible way Klaus is holding himself up, like he'll act up to any notice.) _

“Oh, me?” He says, and there’s an exaggerated lint in his tone. It sounds light and uplifting, but it’s shaky. His words are slurred. His eyes are bright and dilated. His cheek are flushed. “I’m fine. As happy as a peach. As peachy as a plum. Or something like that.. but either way! Thanks for asking though, good to know someone in this house actually gives a damn about something other than, well, their own asses.”

There’s a growl in his words, a roughness in his voice. A slight widening of his eyes, the flicker of his irises. Before Vanya can say… something to that, he’s continuing on, his vice a nonstop transit.

“Anyways, how’s it going in here? Fun times, from the sounds of it next door, cause, you know, we share a wall and the walls are a little thin. You sounded great, by the way. That shrill you let out last week really startled the pee out of me, that’s for sure. Haven't heard it in a while though.“

Vanya couldn't help but smile. No one really listened to her play much, aside from Dad and... 

Either way, it was nice that  _ Klaus _ did, and wasn't that a thought? But she hadn't played in a while though...

Vanya can't help but glance at her violin. It wasn't like she didn't want to play and she really did but... Her fingers twitch in her lap. She can't play it, no matter how much she wants to.

_ (She deserves a break. She doesn't have to play today. Dad won't mind.) _

“Sorry,“ She mutters. “I just... haven't been in the mood.”

The words taste bitter and foul. A lie.

_ ('If you can’t play this correctly, then you shouldn't play at all. You waste not only my time, but the time you could have spent being something at least a bit accomplished. I shouldn't need to spend my time critiquing your adequate playing while I have better things to do inquiring your siblings.' Dad's words bark at her, echoing in her skull, and she needs to pick up her instrument. She needs to play, least he gets mad-) _

_ (But he won't be mad. It's just one day without practice-) _

_ (Is it? Only a day? It feels longer.) _

_ (It hasn't. It's only been a day-) _

Vanya grimaces at the headache pounding in her brain. 

She really hoped Allison would come to her room later-

“It’s fine,” Klaus pipes up and she snaps her head up to look back at him. He's peering at her pill bottle. The new ones. “You kept the ghost from screeching at me.” Then before she can reply, he’s going on and on. “Oh! Lookie here, this is new?”

The pill bottle clinks when he shakes it.

Vanya blinks before she replies. “Oh, um, well Dad said I needed a higher dosage so he gave me a new medication to switch to. He said it would help with my nerves.”

Klaus squints at the pills sitting in the orange bottle. “ For anxiety, right?” He says as he tosses it back onto the nightstand. “God, that sounds nice. When you get nervous, you just take a pill. But when I get nervous, I have to…” Klaus freezes for a moment and his eyes dull. Worry nips at her. Maybe she should say something- but he’s already talking. He’s always talking.

“Anyways, what piece you're playing now? Something sharp and shrilly, I' guessing? Man, now that's a song I'd listen to”.”

Vanya shakes her head. “No, It’s supposed to be the Phantom of the Opera, but I keep messing up. So I have to keep practicing.”

“Nice, nice.” Laus absentmindedly says as he studies her violin. She’s not sure what’s he’s looking at specifically. Maybe he's curious about it? He did say he sometimes listened to her play and that had to count for something. Maybe it could help him with his... predicament. “Um, did you want to learn how to play?”

Klaus chuckles. It's a surprisingly soft sound, and a bit sad... “Me? Yeah, yeah, totally. I’ll be a Picasso at it.”

Vanya may not b the most... adapt with social cues but she knows sarcasm when she hears it. She had heard it from Five a majority of the time....when he came around.

Something heavy tugs at her heart. She hopes he came back home soon...

She blinks away the thought. “You sure? I think you’d be good at it.”

_ ('Better than me,'  _ something whispers at the back of her mind.)

But Klaus shrugs, a sluggish movement in his shoulders. “Not according to dear ol’ dad. He and his cold dead eyes always like to remind just how much a failure I am at even breathing. So nah, you got it, sis, at…whatever this old thing can play. Hey, how old do you think this thing is? Like antique sorta stuff?”

Vanya ponders for a moment. “Um, I’m not sure.” She answers truthfully. She never thought of that. “Dad had it for a while before he let me have it, so I guess it’s old.”

“Huh,” Klaus goes and then he’s leaning over and picking up her violin. Vanya frowns but doesn't object. He's probably just curious. “How much do you think this thing could fetch?”

...Huh?

“I bet it’d be some pretty penny if it’s as old as anything in this house. Like a museum. Except Dad doesn’t just collect old junk, but kids apparently too. Still though, a penny’s a penny. So, how much do you think this would go for?”

“I don’t- Klaus?” Then suddenly, Vanya doesn't want him to hold her violin anymore. Suddenly, she wants him to put it down,  _ down, down _ . A chill raced down her spine and the shock is enough to force her placid brain into action. 

She stands up. “What… what are you talking about?”

Klaus turns to face her and all the warmth she had felt, blooming and small, sputters out at the look on his face. Red, bloodshot eyes. Sweating skin. A manic look in his eyes. Shaking hands just barely holding onto her violin.

“You mind if I borrow this?” He asks, so innocently and sweet and Vanya really doesn’t think it’s a good idea for him to hold her violin anymore. 

She reaches over to take it, slide it into her calloused hands and aching palms, but Klaus suddenly turns. His eyes are on her violin- on its sleek, brown exterior, the tiny scratches and nicks from time, and the weary, yellowish strings from oil prints and use. A violin marked from countless practices day in and day out. 

The  _ only _ thing that could make the silence suffocating home disappear.

“Hey, hey now,” He says and Vanya feels something inside her drop at the harried expression twisting on his face. “You don’t want me to drop it, do you?”

“Klaus, please give it back,” Desperation makes her take a step forward, rushed and panicked. The suddenness of the emotions takes her head for a swim, the shock of it all clashing against the numbness of the pills. The dissociation that stuck to her like glue dissipates slightly, leaving her drowning in the thump-thump-thump of her heart and all too aware of the sweat coating her hands because  _ what does Klaus want her violin for?  _ “Please? You’re going to drop it and… and... I have- to practice!”

“Come on, “ He asks, so pleading and desperate as her. “Just for a bit? I’ll promise I’ll bring it back. Pinky promise! I just need to borrow it- just for a sec! Please? For me?”

Klaus’ eyes are trained on her, dilated eyes focused on her and Vanya… she doesn't know. She doesn't mind helping her siblings out; it sounds like a nice thing to do and it’s been so long since anyone’s asked her and not just taken it from her. A part of her, that small part reserved for warmth and late-night donut runs and math tutorings, cherishes this moment. It blooms, brightens, sparks with the need to say  _ yes _ .  _ Yes, _ it’s okay if he borrows her violin, the only thing she has in this world. The thing that makes her fingers hurt and her backache and her neck sore and her arms aching. It's okay that he borrows it, just for a bit. That she’d do anything for her brother.

(Anything for his goofy smile, his dumb jokes, and his eyes on her. anything for any attention.)

_ ('But do you know what he's going to do with it though?' Some small part of her whispers and it sounds so much like Five. 'Use your brain. You may be naive, but you're smarter than you think.') _

Something inside Vanya trembles. It rages. It shrills in her ears because that’s all she has, this violin. The same thing she spent painful calluses over and sleepless nights. The object of her need to impress and the salvation for praise. The only thing that let a brother too caught up in his own small world in his head to ever give his siblings more than a smart quip or snarky remark to sit on her desk and listen and forte about numbers and equations and every and anything he obsessed over.

_ (“It sounds familiar,” He’d tell her, notebook open, but pages full of doodles instead of equations. “Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9?” _

_ “No,” She says. “Try again.” _

_ "Sonatas.” He says. There’s a frown tugging on his lips. _

_ There’s a grin on hers. “Guess again.” _

_ “Bartok’s Violin Concerto No. 2.” There’s a scowl now.  _

_ “Close.” _

_ "Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi.” _

_ She snickers and the small burst of warmth creeps forward. “Guess again.” _

_ She laughs even harder when he curses, the little german Klaus had been half-assing in their lessons earlier that day fresh- and stuck- in his anger fueled brain. _

_ She lifts up her violin to play it again, the sleekness of the wood brushing against her hands and sharp appendages poking her as she tucks the chinrest under her chin and-) _

Her feet move as the memory dissolves into reality.

“Klaus, give it back.” And the desperation is leaking from her voice, needy and sharp and she j _ ust wants it back.  _ “Please give it back. I- I have to practice.”

_ (She just needs to practice. She just wants to practice-) _

_ (But she can't-) _

_ (But she wants to! She has to. She needs to-) _

“Come on, Vanya. Please. I need it. They- they keep screaming at me and I can’t- I don’t want to hear them anymore. I’ll bring it back, I promise. I just need it for a bit.”

“But _ I _ need it,” Frenzied words pour out of her mouth. She feels herself shaky, trembling, as she outstretches an unsteady hand.

“ _ Why? _ ” And then Klaus’ voice goes shrill. The trembling gets worse. No one even knows you play anyway, much less care. You think dear ol’ dad will ever be proud of you for playing a stupid instrument I speak to ghosts. Ben can conjure monsters from another dimension. Allison can tell anyone to do anything. It’s just a stupid instrument. Please,  _ Vanya _ .”

She shakes her head. Her head throbs at the jerky motion. She takes a step forward, frantic nerves spiking her blood. “People listen!” She whines and it makes something inside her shrivel. “Dad.. Dad listens! And you listen from your room. And Allison listened when she told me to... to..." She stutters.

_ (Because Allison never told her anything.) _

_ (She was the one that told herself to stop playing, to take a break.) _

_ (She was the one who said that. She was the one who told herself to not play. She was the one-) _

Vanya's head swims.

"That's only, like, three people-" Klaus argues and it's shrill and vocal and loud. It's enough to blink the headache away. 

No, it's not just three people, it's-

"Five listens-“ She argues because he did and he does and nothing will change that. He... he listened. He liked to sit at her small desk while she stood and played the notes lying on her bed. She played and played and played for hours and he would sit there and fiddle in his notebook and  _ listen _ .

The words should have been therapeutic. it should have felt like a victory. Instead, the words break apart on her tongue. Shrivel up and die as they get a taste of air because.. because….

“He’s not here anymore, Vanya,” Klaus says and no,  _ no, no- _

“He’ll come back! “ Red fumes in her chest and she can taste the heat of it as she shouts her hysteria because-  _ because _ \- “He always does!"

“But he’s not here, is he? Because he’s not coming back." And now there’s something angry in Klaus’ voice, something heated and deep. “He’s left us- all of us. If that asshole cared about us, he’d be back by now, but he’s not. He’s gone. Dead. “ His voice breaks at that and Vanya…

“You’re wrong,” She whispers, even as the tears crowd her eyes. As the fire inside grows and as her vision tints red. As the hurt blooms. As her head whispers _ ‘He’s right, right, right-‘  _ “He.. he always comes back. He said he would. He told me he’d be back and- and I know he will!”

_ (He has to.) _

In the end, it's quiet. Silent. 

She always hated the silence.

Her throat aches from her furious words. Her hands tremble with her repressed, muted anger. Her stomach rumbles, its' contents full of nothing but medication and water. Her head, heart, very soul, rattles in the stormy aftermath of yelling and screaming and fighting.

She hates the silence, but she hates fighting the most.

A tipped can of beans that they both know is spilled on the floor, but they ignore it. Klaus puts back her violin. Vanya wipes the tears in her eyes. He leaves. She cleans her room. The concoction of emotion and trembling and feeling drains away and all she's left with is numbness.

Later and never, they won't talk about the tear splashes on the floor or the shakiness in Klaus’ hands. They won't talk about Vanya’s words or Klaus’ confession. They ignore the desperation and rage in Vanya and anger and frenzied hysteria in Klaus. She ignores the sound of Klaus climbing down the fire escape and he ignores the eyes that watch him go. 

They don’t talk about that night. They never do. Ignorance is a learned trait when living in their father's home and Vanya is no exception, even if she doesn't see him most of the time. Much less ever receive his attention.

She sits there for the rest of the day; her violin lying on her bed, her music sheets scattered on the floor and the desk, and her medication stagnant in the tipped-over pill bottle on her nightstand. She sits there and waits, waits, waits.

For what? She's no sure anymore.

The prescription stares at her as she waits.

She doesn't need one right now, has no reason to take one, but she slips a smooth, white pill onto her tongue regardless.

_ (It doesn't make her feel any better. Just tired.) _

Then, when the moon reaches the horizon, she finds herself tired of waiting and she goes downstairs. 

She makes the sandwich in the dark of the night. She spread the peanut butter, the marshmallows, and doesn’t cut it. She leaves it on the table this time and whispers something she hopes no one will ever hear. 

“You'll come back.” She whispers. "I know you will.”

He had to.

When she goes back upstairs, she hears a door close. She doesn't turn to see who it is.

She has an idea though.

By the time she gets to bed, she's already accepted one thing.

She doesn't think Allison was coming by today.


	4. Stage 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house is usually empty. The house is usually silent. 
> 
> Vanya's had years to get used to it though. She's had music to fill in the quiet void and memories to occupy the loneliness in her heart. 
> 
> Except, recently, it hasn't been working because all she sees now, all that occupies her thoughts and rips her musical solace away is what once was and what is now. 
> 
> She never really knew how different things were before, and now that she knows, it hard to forget and even harder not to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, another chapter down. Gotta say, I like this one more a lot. It feels a bit dark, but it's been helpful with getting out of the slump I've been in recently. 
> 
> And thanks as well to whoever's reading this- and also sorry. I know it's a mess, but then again, so is growing up and living.
> 
> Oh and before I forget....
> 
> WARNING: depression, anxiety, and pill taking present in this chapter.

The house is empty. 

Empty and silent in a way only silence can; a silence that digs itself deep within the walls until the quiet seeps into the house and personifies the lifelessness haunting the air. 

Footsteps are clambering down the hall, but it sounds muted through the closed door of her room. It could be Pogo, going about his business, or Grace cleaning the rooms. It could be her siblings in a constant motion of late-night arguing to frantic mission preparations. It couldn't be her father because he never walked down these halls unless it was to yell drills into her siblings' heads. Also, she would practically hear his disappointment before he ever uttered a word.

It could be any one of the others though. She just didn't  _ care _ .

Voices, muffled through her closed door, echo down the hallway. She can tell by the high-pitched tone that's it's her sister; it's not hard to miss the authoritative way Allison speaks when her voice jumps from the soft tone she uses when she talks normally to the harsh bark of commands she practically snaps at whoever is in her way. 

_ 'She must have messed up during today's mission.'  _

Yeah, that sounds about right; nothing could get her sister riles up like failure could. Especially when their father had already made his displeasure known.

She can hear Luther, his voice stern in a way he must have learned from their father; he was always blunt with his words and his tone was always the same, even when the  _ 'mission' _ was eating dinner. And then there’s Diego and his sparking temper. It’s easy to pick apart the way his tongue lashing out words; how his voice articulates the stutter he was still attempting to overcome.

She wonders what they’re talking about. She wonders what they’re arguing about now.

Then again, that’s all they seemed to do these days-  _ argue _ . 

She hates it.

_ (She likes it, only to break the silence haunting her room. It’s been so long since anyone’s knocked on her door. Klaus had come by a few nights ago but they don’t speak about that night. Not that she ever has anyone to talk to nowadays.) _

She wonders what villain they fought this time; she heard Pogo mention a mission to Canada to stop some sort of nuclear powerplant. She wonders how Canada looks. Is it really as cold as people say? Does it snow a lot? Are the people there actually nice? And do they like to talk?

Vanya likes to talk- or she would, if she ever had anyone to talk to.

_ ('That's dumb,' Her consciousness says. 'You have me.') _

_ (Something tells her talking to herself isn't exactly healthy. Another part of her tells herself that her consciousness sounds an awful lot like her missing brother.) _

_ (She ignores both of those thoughts.) _

The voices are getting more distant. The footsteps are growing fainter. Her father's voice isn't booming down the halls anymore. Her siblings must be headed up now.

It's growing quiet again. 

_ (She hates the quiet.) _

Her violin is the sun; it burns a hole into her head and she can't help but see the way the sunlight relets off of the sleek exterior. 

It would be so nice to play right about now. Playing would be a loud distraction, an objective to get lost in. A distraction she relishes in when the silence is too much and the empty hole inside her stirs and wails and the need to please, please, please calls to her in her father’s voice. She wonders if she picks it up, would she be able to play? 

And oh, how she longs to feel the smoothness of her violin. How she longs to destroy the white noize buzzing in her ears. To make her music the only sound to roam these halls, loud enough for everyone to hear. Maybe then, they would turn their heads towards her just once and stop arguing for a second. A moment where Deigo’s voice doesn’t lash out and Allison's voice isn't whiney and Luther isn’t loud and booming. A moment where she could make them quiet for just a second, and she could be as loud and attention-drawing as them.

But most of all, she just wants to play her violin. It's been ages since Allison had last spoken to her, and whenever she tried to catch her attention, her sister was already gone. She was too stuck in her head to see what was right in front of her and that something was a sister she had  _ forgotten about.  _

_ (They forgot about Five too. But she didn't. She never would.) _

Vanya listens, a bystander instead of a resident, as her three siblings bicker and argue as they go up, up, up the stairs. It leaves her with a hollow feeling, listening to their voices argue and fight and brawl.

She wonders, for the umpteenth time that day- every day, her whole life- what it would be like one of them one day. Just a day. A small moment in time. She wonders how it feels to yell your frustrations so easily instead of this numbing cylinder in her stomach that controls her emotions. She wonders what it's like to actually show something besides nothingness and be so expressive in the scowl on your face or the furrow in your brow and most of all, to be  _ heard and listened to. _

_ ('Calm yourself, Number Seven. Your foolish whining is a strong resemblance to that of a small pubescent baby.' Her consciousness scolds her.) _

_ (It sounds a lot like Dad.) _

But then she would be making a fool of herself. Maybe even come across as annoying and she doesn’t want that. Her father barely tolerated her presence, she didn't want to give anyone else a reason to barely tolerate her too. It was hard enough as it was, to be cast aside and ignored. To be seen, but easily looked over. 

She does wonder though, what are they arguing about?

Klaus and Ben must have walked past her door. Klaus must have said something funny because Ben's laughter was music in her ears. Well, anything was music to her hears- as long as it wasn't the white-noise that had become her acquaintance since her siblings had been gone. Then again, it was always a visiting friend when the majority of the household was gone; silence was awful company.

_ (How she misses her violin-) _

She contemplates opening the door. Just for a peek. Maybe to say hi to Ben. It's been a while since they've talked. And Klaus...

They hadn’t talked at all since the  _ 'violin incident'- _ as she dubbed it in her head- and, well, it had hurt. But it wasn’t supposed to hurt. She should know by now how forgettable she was. So what if Klaus hadn't talked to her for more than a minute? He had never really done so before, so why should now be any different?

And so she hesitates. Stays put and watch him go up the stairs. listens to them walk to their rooms.

_ (Her violin glares at her. Her fingers twitch.) _

_ (She doesn't think Allison is visiting her today.) _

It grows silent in the hallway. Well, almost silent. 

Ben is a stationary statue. She can see him from the small crack in her closed door. He stands there, so still and quiet, that for a moment, Vanaya doesn't think he’s breathing. But she can see the movement in his chest, hear the drip-drip of the blood landing on the floor. He’s staring at the wall, but his eyes are untrained, staring into the air. 

Vanya creeps over before she can think. “Hey,” She whispers, opening her door a little. “Are… they mad at each other again?”

Ben blinks at her. Oh. He must have been spacing out. He always did after they came back from missions. “Hm? Oh, uh, I don’t think so. I think… they might be arguing about their score again.”

Vanya blinks. “A score?”

Ben nods, but he seems distant. His eyes are hazy despite being on her. He’s breathing a little too shallowly, but it’s what he always does after, well, the mission. “It’s… uh, something they keep track of. Like how many bad guys they got. I think. I wasn’t keeping track.”

His words fall into a mumble. His eyes aren’t on her anymore. Now, they’re on the floor. Unblinking. 

It scares her a little. It always does. 

Ben, for all his silence and shyness, was always the nicest out of all of them. And to see him so… distant is nothing new. But that doesn't mean it doesn't unnerve her nonetheless. Ignorance is a familiar concept to her, but that doesn't mean she  _ likes  _ it. It’s a similar, conflicting feeling to when Klaus comes around all sweaty and red-eyed and manic glint in his eyes. The knowledge that something is visibly wrong, but she has no idea how to fix it. 

_ (Five would know.) _

Vanya shoves the thought away.

“Oh,” She says, remembering her words. Arguing siblings. Keeping score. Right.

“Yeah,” Ben says, but he wasn’t looking at her. No, he was looking at the floor. At the air. Lost in his head. He  _ looks  _ like he's gazing at the wall, but… he wasn’t. He had a distant look in his eyes, one that reminded her so much of the  _ 'violin incident.' _

She remembered Klaus. She remembered a glazed stare staring off into the distant, the clamminess of his skin and the redness of his face. She remembered the desperate plea that echoed loudly in her tiny room _ : “Please.” _

She didn’t like the look in Klaus’ eyes then. She didn’t like the one reflected in Ben’s now.

It had been a few nights since Klaus’s visit but the memory of it still burned into her brain. It wasn’t every day her siblings came to see her and the rare times they did, it always felt... awkward, to say the least. 

But still, it was nice. More than nice, it put a smile on her face and made that warm feeling to bloom in her chest. It was an odd sensation to feel; it was like the sunshine, but in the way it burned your skin if left exposed for too long. Like the cool touch of water, but it was icy cold and numbing. Like the warmth of a fireplace, but if you stuck your hand inside the flames. 

It was nice, but it was so much to feel and too much for her to understand. She had been, after all, taking her prescription for anxiety for so long, it was disconcerting to feel anything other than muted emotions and drowsiness. But it felt nice. It reminded her of late-night donut runs and sleepovers with Allison and.. and… afternoons of math equations with Five…

The ghost of his memory; of the way he snorted when he found something funny or the fiery sneer on his face when he and Diego were arguing or the snarky comments muttered under his breath when Luther attempted to discuss what went wrong on a mission and the annoyed expression on his face when Allison tried to sweet-talk him into some sort of scheme or the way he’d look Klaus’ in the eye whenever he said anything even when the rest of them turned away. And the way he’d sit on her small desk, listening to her play. How he’d help blimp into her room in a spark of blue and sit down with a notebook and start to rant about whatever was going on in his head in time with the chords playing from her violin. How he’d knock on her door late at night as their sibling's laughter rang through the night sky. How his hands would reach over, tug on her still-clad- in-pj’s arm and say: “ _ Hurry up, slowpoke, before the others leave without us.” _

He had been the one confidant that Vanya had ever had in her life, and then he's left. Then he was gone. 

_ (‘He left us. He left us and he’s not coming back!”) _

Vanya exhales the warmth in her lungs- her heart, her soul, the blood in her veins- and a cold numbness settles in her chest. It’s an old friend, this gaping hole that reminds so much so like sloshing, cold waves of the ocean she saw on a tv once. The darkness of the water, the violent dance of the waves, the never-ending cycle of the tide rolling in and out- all of it a chaotic concoction of the emotions inside her personified. In the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shores, the booming roar of the incoming tide engulfing all underneath, the silent  _ swoosh swoosh _ of the ocean...

She exhales- and lets in that familiar dampness. It feels like a sloshing ocean. It sounds like crashing waves. It tastes of bitterness and frozen ice. It smells like ice and shadows, of the coolness of the dark and the sharp stab of freezing ice. A melody of sensations personified inside of her. 

Because she had no words to describe the feelings she felt, only how it did feel. How else could she describe how empty and cold her heart felt when the ocean exemplified it so well?

And it hurts- hurts when she feels that heavy weight weigh down on her just a tad bit more. Of the gentle, yet freezing breeze encasing her heart. Of the fogginess blurring her thoughts, her brain akin to something as useless as the sludge of seaweed and wet sand lying on the shore. It’s a salty and bitter taste so familiar to her tongue; the smoothness of the pill was like water running down her tongue and the bitter tange of chemicals she doesn't know the name of was like the taste of salt and fish of the sea.

It was equally unpleasant.

_ He left us,” _ Klaus’ whispered in her ear, the words a phantom haunting her thoughts. 

Something moved in the corner of her vision. 

Vanya snapped out of the fogginess in her brain and turned her head. It was Ben, only Ben. 

Ah. Right. She was talking to Ben.

She took a quick glance around the empty hallway. Allison was most likely in her room. Luther was as well, the music from his record player muffled but audible from behind the door. Deigo wasn’t in the hall, but Vanya could guess where he was: either in his room or hanging around Mom. She didn't have to guess where Klaus was, as the flickering of a lighter was audible in the conversationless hallway.

It was only her and Ben- Ben who was still red from blood and sluggish from being used as a gateway for beasts from another dimension. He was already shuffling slowly forward, the  _ drip-drip  _ of red trailing behind him.

Vanya internally hoped he wasn't going to bed yet. He was going to ruin his sheets and Dad was not going to be happy about that.

Maybe that’s why she stepped forward and followed him into his room. Maybe that’s why she didn’t leave even as he slumped down onto the floor- and thankfully not on his bed. 

Because she was worried, under all the dissociation and unconnected pieces in her waking world and the numbness of the pills. She was worried and it was a certain kind of anxiety that jerked at her slow brain and moved her mouth before she could. 

“Aren’t you going to take a shower?” She winced at the way the question echoed around the room. It was silent in an unnatural way; it was never quiet when her siblings were home. Never.

There was always the clatter of boots, the yelling of angry voices, the high pitched laughter coming from closed doors, and the flicker of the lighter Klaus’ kept in his bottom drawer underneath all his books so Mom wouldn't find it. And usually, Luther’s footsteps would sound through the hall as he stomped to Klaus' room to tell him to quit smoking or he’d  _ ‘get Dad because smoking is bad for your lungs and a future hindrance of to the team and Dad said no smoking-‘  _ and then there’d be a soft, warbly pop and a blue light flashed into the dim hallway and an agitated voice would tell everyone to ‘ _ shut up for five damn minutes, I’m trying to sleep- _

"No, I don’t’ want to.” Ben’s voice snaps her away from the daze, a lecherous thing that drifts away from her for just a moment. It sounds soft, faint. Soft, and quiet. 

Like the echo of the house. The absent running in the halls. The vacancy of Allison’s constant chatter. The missing music drifting through the halls. The occasional blimp through space she sometimes hears in the back of her mind but it’s just a memory echoing in her ears. Nowadays, that’s all she missed these days: the memory of what once was.

It’s an unsettling thing, this quiet. Usually, Klaus’ is here after missions; he’s the one who can coax Ben into the tub and scrub all the blood and bits of flesh stuck in his hair. But he’s not here.

And, well, Vanya can't just leave Ben like this. It’s not a surprise to see blood on his clothes, to smell the iron in the air, and to hear the squishing sound of wet shoes on polished floors. It’s hard to ignore it. 

She wonders if she's the only one to find it disturbing, in a sense. She wonders if she's weird to think so. Ben never really seemed open about his own discomfort and her siblings never said anything about it. Then again, they’re 15 now and blood isn't that uncommon when you're a superhero.

She could just walk away. She could just go to her room and be invisible again, where no one would wave at her and no one would say hi. Where she could be behind a closed door and go back to staring at her violin again.

_ ‘Klaus’ can take care of him,’ _ A treacherous part of her whispers.  _ ‘He always does.’ _

But Klaus isn’t here right now. She is, but she doesn't know what  _ to do. _

“Are you sure?” The question is flimsy, weak. As quiet as this whole house. But she doesn't want to leave Ben here, not when there wasn’t anyone here for him. “The bed will be messy if you do and you know Dad doesn’t like blood on the bed.”

Ben huffs and it’s a small sound. A tiny puff of air that sounds more like an exhale than a chuckle. “And on the floor, the door, the walls, and every other inch of this place.”

Vanya stays silent for a moment. Uncertainty eats at her. “Um.. okay. Do you… want me to get Klaus? I can go get him, if you want me to. Just in case I‘m being a bother.”

“No,” he says quickly, harshly. A rise above a whisper but softer than his full voice. “No, not right now. I don’t… I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

Vanya blinks. But...

”I thought you like being around each other?”

Everyone does. It’s an unspoken thing to have something of your own in a house full of seven kids, an adult, a robot, and a chimpanzee. Allison and Luther have each other. Diego has Mom. Ben had Klaus. 

_ ‘And I had Five,’ _ She sorrowfully thinks and her ears unconsciously perk up for the sound of a warbly ‘ _ pop’ _ , the sudden pressure in the air, and the flash of bright blue. There’s nothing though. There isn't anymore. A heaviness settles in her chest again, aching and gaping.

Ben shakes his head. “No, no thank you. I  _ know _ he doesn’t want to see me. Not after I… what I did today. What I do every time.” He sniffles and Vanya unconsciously steps closer to him. Her hand touches the dark red caked on his uniform jacket. It’s oddly warm still. She tries not to think about it.

“I hate it,” He whispers, so quiet and so soft. But his words cause something to squeeze inside her, something painfully familiar. “I hate doing it. I hate going out on missions. I hate the sounds. The feeling. I hate killing. I hate it!”

It’s a harsh whisper, a guttural harsh, silent cry. She sees the tears well up in his eyes and she presses herself closer to him. “And..” He continues. “I -I hate .. He was there, you know. Klaus. He saw me tear those guys apart and he saw…” Ben bites his lip, his eyes staring blankly at the floor.

She knows what he’s saying. Her shoulder droop at the notion. Poor Klaus.

“I didn't mean to do it near him, “ He gushes out. “I didn't mean to… I just did the plan Luther told me and Dad… I want to apologize, to say I’m sorry, but I can’t. Because I hate… I don’t like it when he does those things.”

Vanya nods. She knows what he means. 

She never liked the smell of the smoke coming from Klaus’ room. She smelt it on his clothes when he visited her the other night.

“And he’s not getting better,” Ben continues, a tear silently dripping down his face. “I- I’m trying, but he.. he keeps doing it. He doesn't think I know, but I  _ know _ . I don’t know where he gets it or how he buys it but I can smell it.”

“He visited me the other night,” She says softly, the words spilling out of her because it’s been so  _ long _ since she’s had this length of conversion with someone. With Ben. “He smelled...  _ weird _ .”

She doesn’t tell him he tried to take her violin. Nor about the way Klaus had been eyeing her pills. It’s best not to.

Ben gives her such a pitiful, sad, broken look. The look of someone’s who trying, but they’re so,  _ so _ tired. Vanya hates that look more than Klaus’ manic-filled eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” He says, so quiet and broken. “I’m trying, but he doesn't listen to me. He never does. And it scares me because I don’t want him to… to be gone too. Not like…”

He doesn't say it, but Vanya hears it loud and clear.

_ Five. _

Her heart sinks as she stares into the blood-clad jacket of her brother. 

And then it clicks in her unfocused brain: that’s why he’s always following after Klaus. Always has his eyes on him. Always looks after him during late nights. Because he doesn't want him to be gone either.

_ Gone _ . It’s a bitter word in her mouth. She doesn't like it.

She shoves it aside- the ache, the gaping hold in her chest, the everpresent agony from his absence, and the nothingness he left behind. She shoves it away- at the image of Klaus’ gone, of the missing flicker of his lighter or his high pitched laughter. Of the missing vulgar jokes and the missing smell of smoke that followed him everywhere. To have it gone…. Vanya pushes the thought aside. It hurts too much to think of.

“He won’t leave,” She says, and it tastes like desperation and wishful things. Of  _ what’s ifs _ on her tongue. “He won’t. And Five… he’ll come back. I know he will And Klaus…he won’t leave, not.. not with you here. You two are close.”

The words sit on her tongue, the ever-present shadow of doubt leaking its way over her. Because out of all of them- with the exception of Luther and Allison- Klaus and Ben are the two siblings closest out of all of them. Surely Klaus wouldn't leave Ben here.

Right?

_ ‘Five left, didn’t he?’  _ It’s a cold breeze against her ear and Vanya shoves it away. 

No, he’s coming back. One day. He’ll walk through that door in a burst of blue and everything will be fine okay. One day.

There’s a sigh, soft and quiet, and Vanya turns to see Ben looking at her. There’s a strange look on his face, a mix between sadness and pity. It’s not something she likes and already she can feel the nervousness biting at her despite the medication in her system.

“Oh, Vanya,” He says, and god, when did his voice get so  _ sad _ . When did his eyes grow so weary? Where was the brother who loved to recommend her books? The brother who liked to listen to her play as he read? Where did he go? “It’s not all peaches and sunshine.”

The saying isn't something she’s heard before- and it sounds like Klaus- but it makes something seize inside her chest. Like someone had gripped her heart and was squeezing and it was so startling and so sudden that she jerked to her feet.

She excused herself and all but ran from the room. The last thing she saw was Ben’s small smile. 

He hadn’t taken a shower yet, but the blood had long since dried. 

But she doesn't care anymore. Doesn’t even notice. Because words are washing over her like waves on a rock and it’s slowly wearing her away.

_ He left us. Don't you get it? _

_ It’s not all peaches and sunshine. _

She didn’t understand. She didn’t know why, but the words followed her around like seagulls on the bay. 

What had he meant when he said that? Both of them. What did they mean? What couldn't they understand?

Was it so bad to have  _ hope _ ?

Vanya had spent so much time hoping, she never realized what the opposite meant: To have the treacherous thought that Five wasn’t coming back home.

That he never would.

When she gets to her room, the sunshine leaking through the curtains doesn’t help and the pills sitting on her desk aren’t a comfort like usual. Because those words… She hates them. She loathes them. She wished it were. Gone because he had to come back. Then everything would be okay and everything would be normal.

‘Would it?” She whispered to herself. 

What if Klaus left? What if Ben never got better? What if things never got better? What if she never got good at her violin? What if she was never good enough? What if… what if he never came home?

_ (What if- what if- what if- what if-) _

Thoughts were all she had, in the end. 

She breathes. In and out.

In. And out.

In. And out.

In.

_ In. _

_ In. _

Her breathing is the only sound in her empty room.

_ (She really wants to play her violin-) _

Her violin case is shoved hastily into the corner of her room. She goes to it and the urge to feel the instrument in her hands  _ burns _ . She just wants to hold it, play it, listen to the bow staff glide along the strings, and let the music flood her room- 

_ I heard a rumor you stopped playing that dumb- _

Vanya slams the case shut.

Her hands continue to shake. 

It's almost instinct to take a pill.

* * *

Her perpetual urge doesn't die by the time she goes to bed, nor does it go away when she wakes up the next morning. The spiraling thoughts don't go away either, festering inside her all throughout the night.

Needless to say, Vanya doesn't get much sleep that night and morning comes all too soon. And as fatigued as she is by breakfast time, the thoughts have settled little, if at all. The chair next to her is a shining beacon, heat scorching her skin and light blinding her eyes. It calls for her attention practically begs her eyes to stir over. Wants her to look. 

She doesn't. She keeps her eyes stubbornly onto the plate in front of her, long locks of brown tumbling into the mix of eggs and bacon on her plate. 

_ ‘He left us,’  _ Vanya stabs her eggs a little too forcefully. The lonely seat beside her is glaringly lonely. She tries so hard not to look.

_ (It doesn't help. Not when, in the corner of her eyes, she can almost see his slouched form sitting in the chair, can hear the clatter of utensils as his knife tears at the egg in a way that tells her his mind is elsewhere. How the small pit-patters of bacon on porcelain plates tells her he’s inspecting his bacon for any burnt edges because he was always picky with his food.) _

The record player crackles across the room, the static voice echoing words she’s heard at least once a week. It’s a familiarity. A consistent sound that was just as familiar as the presence of the eight seats around her. 

_ (Seven. It’s seven seats now.) _

Vanya shoves a piece of bacon into her mouth and focuses on the way her teeth grind the crisp meat into a greasy mush. If she focuses hard enough, she can taste the liquidy fat of the bacon, the greasiness oozing out of the fatty meat with each chew. The burnt- too crispy- bits is equivalent to the feeling of concrete on her skin in the way it scratches against the surface of her tongue, stabbing her gums with little pin-pricks of overcooked bacon.

The eggs also feel as hyperfocused on her tongue; sunny-side up with a runny yolk. Creamy, yellow yolk running down onto bland tasteless egg whites. The butter, melted and smearing the plate with its slightly clear mark, blares at her about how much butter is in the egg. She's not sure, but it's a lot more than her siblings, with their bland toast and egg-spinach plates. 

Hers is special; it's buttery, fattening, and tasty. It's also unhealthy, and she can taste it in the melted fat of the bacon sliding down her esophagus, in the soft side of the toast caked in warm butter.

It makes her sick.

The chair beside her beacons her to look. 

She turns her eyes the other way, ignoring the glaringly obvious empty seat beside her. Ben is the first one she sees. 

The first thing she notices is how  _ tired _ her brother looks. Eye bags are dark under his eyes and he slouches in his seat in a way that their father would despise. Luckily, the man has yet to take his eyes off of the morning paper.

Relief blooms inside her- before it promptly dies at the second thing she notices: His plate is still full. His turkey bacon sits in the corner of his plate, untouched, and his eggs have been reduced to a mushy mess. 

The third thing: Ben has the same look on his face as he did yesterday.

_ ‘Oh, Vanya.’  _ She hears in her ears and a forlorn expression flashes in her mind, followed by a pitiful glare in his eyes and she can already feel the sinking, startling denial in her heart start up again-

Her stomach gurgles in discomfort and Vanya tears her eyes away. 

She sees Klaus next. He seems fine at a glance.

Klaus is chewing, but his plate is still full. Vanya can't help the confused frown from curling her lips. Brown eyes look up to meet hers and Vanya jolts back in surprise at the winks and too-wide smile he gives her. Cold shivers run down her spine at the smile. 

She remembers a knock at her door, a smile greeting her, and desperation in his eyes. She remembers the smell of his sweat, like cigarettes and the underlining smell of something odd past the toothpaste and mouthwash. She remembers the clamminess of his palms as he patted her on the shoulder and the moist imprints on her violin's sleek frame. She remembers the look in his eyes, eyes never on her, always moving. To her corner, the door, and her window. And her violin. She remembers the way he stared at her pill bottle and the grip he held on her violin.

She had been afraid he wouldn't have given it back. 

_ 'He would have,’  _ she says to herself. Scolds.  _ ‘He would have. He wouldn’t do anything bad to it. He’s your brother.’ _

She knows but she still remembers his words. It’s been a mantra she’s couldn't forget every time she looked at him.

_ ‘He left us,’ _ She remembers him whispering. As if she could ever forget. She couldn't and she didn't want to, not when she was the only one holding any hope anymore. Not when she was the only one who seemed to  _ care _ . 

And what was worse was that sometimes, she still expected him to pop up around the corner. Just.... pop up out of nowhere and drag her along on their donut runs and family meetings and movie nights like they used to way back then. Back then when Luther and Diego didn't fight as much. Back then when Ben wasn't so sad. Back then when Klaus would laugh and smile without looking so broken. Back when Allison cared enough to think of someone other than herself. 

Back when she would-  _ could _ \- play her violin and he would listen and the only sound in the room was the melody dancing off of the strings.

She blinks. Her fingers twitch. 

She wishes she could play again. She wishes Allison would remember to stop by her room again. 

_ (She wishes her brother would come back home.) _

Vanya thinks about her small room, the homework sprawled across her tiny desk, and of the silent violin she wants to play but she..  _ can't _ . She can't and it makes something heavy and aching sink down on her shoulders. It feels like longing. Like sadness. Like something was missing- and something  _ was _ . 

But at the same time... it wasn't. And what an odd sensation that was- to expect something to be there, and at the same time, it wasn't. 

Suddenly, that heavy weight sinks past her shoulders and into her heart and it's  _ cold _ . Too cold. The bacon and grease and eggs and yolk sit like rocks, mushy and gross and wet, in her stomach. The bacon fat and butter mix and merge and it looks cold and unappealing as her stomach gurgles at the sight.

Because… because… she doesn't- doesn’t know-

What if Allison never took away her rumor? 

What if she couldn't play ever again?

What if... he never came home?

It’s a cold thought. One much worse than the bitter cold of the wishful what-ifs that play in her head. Much, much worse. And she hates it.

It's like a car crash the first second you realize what's going to happen. You feel that overwhelming chill in the air, the beating of your heart, and the gasp in your lungs. You feel the shock in your system and the need to stop. To have everything stop- heart, lungs, and time itself- to stop- stop- stop.

Because… because… she doesn’t know what to do if any of that was true: if she could never play or never be remembered o _ r never see her brother again.  _

_ ‘It’s not all peaches and sunshine.’ _

Such simple words and yet it makes her whole world go upside-down. She feels disoriented like she's been spun around and around until she can't tell what's up or down. She feels confused and lost and so much like the mush of eggs on her plate. But most of all, she can't help but  _ feel _ . There's a heaviness in her shoulders. A weight in her chest. A clog in her lungs. One she hates, hates, hates and she just wishes she could yank out the pain. The hurt she can feel. The never-ending void she can feel under the waves pounding inside her. Wishes it would stop.

Wishing everything would just go back to the way things were  _ before _ .

_ (She misses those late-night donut runs and having her siblings around and seeing them laughing and smiling. She misses when everyone could sit down together and just... talk.) _

The thought- the part of her that misses what once was- eats at her, unraveling her heart apart at the seams. It makes her feel like yarn, in the way it yanks and pulls and twists the veins converged to her heart into something painfully bruised. And she can't help but feel this way, not when it's her that makes herself feel this.. this  _ bad _ . It's her that misses the old days. It's her that wishes this could go back to the way they were before. It's her that torturing herself; she is the one unraveling herself and leaving her grieving the nostalgia of what once was and she doesn't understand  _ why _ .

Why she feels this way. Why things changed so much between her family. Why it couldn't go back to the way it all was before.

_ (Why Five couldn't just come home already-) _

Either way, the nostalgia that was once a familiar warmth in her heart was now morphing into an ache in her chest. And it feels like an anchor, pulling her this way and that and Vanya can’t tell which way is which. Down or up? Left or right? It’s a neverending cycle, this feeling. One not affected by the bitter pill and yet just as overwhelming as the anger she remembers feeling so vividly all those months ago.

Maybe she should take more? But she already took two and taking more wouldn’t be good for her.

She continues breakfast, but the eggs and bacon and toast feel like rocks in the pit of her gut.

‘ _ He left us.’ _

The bacon taste like ash, the fatty and greasy. The eggs are bland and mushy. The buttery bread is paper in her mouth. She feels each piece slide down her throat and land with a 'plop' in her queasy stomach.

It’s when breakfast is over that she hears the mission bell blare. 

It almost feels like a broken record to see the chaos erupt in the house. her siblings run left and right, her father shouts to and fro, and she sits there in her chair, eating a meal that's long since gone cold on her plate. 

And, as chaotic as chaos is, it leaves as suddenly as it arrives, and before long and she’s left in an empty house. Too empty. Too Quiet.

She thinks to go to her violin. She thinks of music filling the halls. She thinks of callouses burn on her fingertips and her arms aching from soreness. She thinks and thinks and thinks and she feels something heavy settle on her shoulders. 

Right. She can't play still. Allison hadn't come by to see her yet. 

_ (Why though? Diego was talking again and so was Klaus. Why could she play yet? Why hadn't her sister come by yet? Why, why, why-) _

_ (She could always ask-) _

_ (No. Allison might get annoyed. And besides, she was probably just.... busy or something.) _

_ (Or I'm just a coward.) _

Vanya very forcefully pushes that thought away. She wasn't a coward; it's stupid to be scared of your sister- of your family. She was just... worried. Anxious. Jittery.  _ Nervous.  _ That's all.

And yet, Vanya can't help but feel the tension in her shoulders, the grind in her teeth, the fidgetiness in her hands, and the tightness in her chest. There’s a chill in the air, the emptiness of the house tangible and the silence is a thick, invisible fog in the air. She can feel it in the way she breathes; her lungs inhale and deflate heavily. A shiver runs down her arms.

The house is too cold. Too quiet. It makes her feel trapped. Makes her body feel heavy. Makes everything feel heavy like there’s a weight in her heart. Like her anxiety is slowly yanking at her nerves. 

It makes her more aware of just how alone she is.

She wants out, away from here.

_ 'But where?' _ Her brain asks.  _ 'Where would you go?' _

_ 'Anywhere but here, in this empty dining room,'  _ She answers herself, but she doesn't make to move from her chair. Her eggs have long grown cold. Her fork feels warm in her hand.

Vanya contemplates going into her room and the thought of her cold, silent violin stashed in the corner makes her hands twitch. She can almost feel the lingering ache, the phantom pain. The ache in her arms. The stress in her shoulders. The shrillness of her notes ringing out in her small room, the tuning rods on her instrument cold from neglect. 

She never did know how to tune her instrument. She desperately wants to learn.

_ (If only Allison would-) _

Suddenly, the plate in front of her was an unappealing mush before her. The smell of it resembling something akin to a pile of garbage underneath her nose. The emptiness of the house shrilled in her ears the same way her violin upstairs screeched a terrible representation of Phantom of the Opera, a melody that she'd played over and over again for naught.

Her fingers ached to try. She could feel it, the urge to play. She could hear it in a ghost of a melody that played in her head, calling to her like a siren’s call to come up and play least to make the silence go away. Just for a bit. Dad would want her too and besides, no one was home. She wouldn't bother anyone with her playing. But what if she bothered  _ Mom _ ? Or Pogo, her kind yet distant friend? Surely she could go without playing for another _ day... _

Vanya jolted out of her seat. Her chair hit the floor with a  _ bang _ . The fork rattled to the table. The mess of egg and bacon scattered across the empty dining table, her plate rattling violently.

...Maybe she could do some... homework for today. Yeah, that sounded good. Something to kill time until her siblings came home later.

_ 'Then what?' _ Her brain asked her yet again.  _ 'Then what will you do?' _

_ ('You can't ignore everything forever.') _

_ 'It's fine.' _ She chided herself as she fixed the chair back onto its' feet before Mom could scold her for it.  _ 'Everything's fine. I'll be fine.' _

And yet, as she made her way up the stairs, she couldn't help but be aware of the portraits' stare from across the hall. Couldn't shake the discomfort from seeing such eyes without the burning independence she'd always seen in them.

_ (He always did like to listen to her play. Said it helped him focus.) _

She always hated that portrait. She couldn't bear seeing it. It was, in all sense of the word,  _ wrong _ . 

The serene expression on the interloper's face was as incorrect as painting the sun purple- it just wasn't right. The regalness of his posture. The calmness of the portrayal. The lifelessness in its' eyes... it was more than wrong. It was an outright lie.

Because if Five was anything, it definitely wasn't calm- in any vocabulary or synonym; He was driven, curious, and most of all, independent. 

“He’s always telling me to not go overboard,” She remembers him saying, venting.  _ "Saying I’ll ‘go too far one day.' Please, like that man knows anything about anything."  _ He had scoffed as he perched by her desk. "He was the one who wanted me to learn more about physics so I did! But apparently, Einstien's Special Theory of Relativity was 'too much for me right now.' And he had the audacity to scold me for it like a small child! Said I ‘shouldn’t be learning such fundamental laws so early in my training.’ As if I'm not ready. Well, it’s my power, not his so I get a say as to what I want to know.”

He did that a lot: Vent. Rant. Snap his words out of his mouth and to any unwilling soul. Usually, that soul was Klaus or Ben or even Diego, if the match burned bright enough. But usually, she was the one who listened- mostly because she never liked saying no. And it was nice to have someone around to talk to, even if she wasn't the one talking.

Not that she minded, of course. She knew how lonely these four walls could be, and how your voice could echo down the halls for minutes, even hours, at a consistent speed if you talked enough. And empty hallways made for terrible conversationalist, and more times often than not, the echoes would tapper away and you would be left with the sound of a lone voice being dragged down the hall. A reminder that walls can’t talk and wood can’t speak and the only voice in the hall was yours.

But that never stopped him. His mind was a whirlwind, constantly running along like a freight train and nothing could stop it until it reached its’ destination. She knew he had journals crammed with numbers and words and sketches and notes, and that whatever couldn’t fit on the page, it would move onto the walls.

And it wasn’t like the half-mad scribbles of hysteria etching onto the other side of her wall, but a sloppy mess of notes written by hands that couldn't keep up with the speed of a brain. And most of the time, even his words failed him ever now and then; he’d stutter on random words and mumble out solutions to problems he hadn't yet grasped and fume when he couldn't.

Usually, those memories were nice. It was nice to have someone talk over the silence of the house. It was nice to hear someone other than her dysfunctional family and her shrill violin. Usually, it was nice.

_ Usually. _

Except lately, they were anything but. The warmth once held in those few, precious memories sputtered out into something cold and damp. Like sunshine dimming down into cold moon rays.

She's at the top of the stairs now. Her room is down the hall, a couple of measly steps away, with her lonely violin and her tiny room. The floors under her are silent, save for the thuds of her footsteps still echoing down below. And yet, for all the distance between the third and first floor, the portrait is a haunting presence seared into her brain. 

‘ _ He left us. _ ’ Klaus’ had told her, rare anger in his eyes.

_ (He left us. He left us. He left us. He left- left-) _

Vanya startles up at the thought, jolting in place like she'd been slapped. At the ache clamping down on her lungs with razor-sharp teeth because he  _ was  _ coming back... one day...

He must.. be lost or something. He must be. Because the thought of him leaving them behind and never looking back hurts in a way the pills don’t take away. But he wouldn’t leave, not with them there because... Because they were his siblings and he was their brother and they were  _ family _ .

_ He left us. He left us. _

The words are as unpleasant. The actual idea of it is even more so. It’s overwhelming, these thoughts. It's just three words and yet it brings damnation to her whole world.

Or what she thought her world was, what she thought her place in life was. 

Once, in a distant memory, their dad had taught them to swim. Once, in a distant memory, Vanya almost drowned.

She didn’t remember the pool or where she was, but she remembered her Dad’s stern eyes. She remembered being scared.

_ ‘Go ahead, Number Seven.’ _ He told her, all but ignoring the tears in her eyes. ‘ _ You’ll never get over your fear if you don’t take the plunge first.’ _

So she did. Reluctantly, but she still jumped.

Vanya remembered the coldness on her skin, the way the water brushed past her arms, swarming her in an imaginary bubble of chilly gentleness. Then she remembered the cool depths below. How cold the water got when she sank deeper and deeper. 

It was that moment that Vanya's small world had  _ rattled _ .

She remembered the moment where she found out that no, the water  _ wasn’t _ gentle, but luring. A tantalizing depths that looked fun, but it was like dropping into a dark hole. It was cold and dark and suffocating. Her lungs, pleading for air. Her arms were useless in their flight for freedom. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream because water had swallowed up her words mercilessly. She remembered how tired she had been as if all the energy in her tiny body had seeped away. The water had grown colder, and then suddenly and just as slowly, it started to become something bearable- pleasant. The water felt safe then, and her thoughts of panic drifted away as she sank into the water's cool depths.

In that moment- that split second- she was in a dark hole, a weightless space where the only one here was her. Her and the cold biting her arms and the water suffocating her lungs and the distant pain she felt in her chest. Then a hand darted out of nowhere and pulled her from her watery prison. 

She doesn't remember who it was, but she does remember how painful coughing up water had been and how, when she was out, and the sunshine hit her skin, how  _ nice _ warmth felt. She all but forgot the chilly water depths in that moment.

That's what she felt like now, trapped and suffocating. There’s a pain in her chest, lungs contracting, and a trail of goosebumps running along her arms. She feels the fight in her heart, can feel it breaking from the tears in her eyes.

The loneliness in the air is palpable. The echo of her breathing audible in the halls. The empty hallway is cold and silent. It was as if this house was only constant in two things: emptiness and silence. All that roamed these halls were empty memories and empty sentiments.

Because... because...

_ He left me.  _

Vanya remembers the late-night donut runs. She remembers the dark hallways and her dark room. She remembers the only source of light at the dead of night, when the world was sleeping, was the moonlight shining through her small window. She remembers the  _ knock-knock _ on her door and the hand yanking hers as they headed for the fire escape in Klaus’ room.  _ ‘Let's go,’ _ Her brother once told her.

She used to cherish that memory. She used to remember the warm glow in her chest and the small smile it infected on her face. How nice it was.

It doesn't feel nice anymore.

‘ _ Oh Vanya,’ _ Ben had said, a sad smile on his face. The ever-present gloom darkening his eyes. ‘ _ It’s not all sunshine and peaches.’ _

Vanya thinks of Allison’s angry snarl. The fire in Diego’s eyes. The stubborn scowl on Luther’s face. The manic look in Klaus's eyes. The emptiness on Ben’s.

When had they gotten so...  _ wrong _ ? When did Luther and Deigo begin to argue so badly? When did Allison begin to become so distant? When had Klaus turned into something self-destructive? When did Ben look so sad?

Back then, the only thing Luther and Diego would argue about was how many jelly-filled glazed donuts they could eat. Back then, Allison would merely roll her eyes and look at Vanya with a smile as she took a small bite out of her donut. Back then, Klaus and Ben would make a game of swiping all the chocolate-filled donuts because it was Ben's favorite and the only thing her siblings would do was steal them back. Back then, Five would roll his eyes and tell them to just get another one, but no one said anything when his eyes kept drifting to Luther’s cake donut.

When had they changed from those kids sneaking out for greasy treats?

She remembers and remembers and dreams back to nights like those- but those nights don’t happen anymore. They haven't happened in a long time.

Maybe Klaus was right. Maybe he wasn’t coming back. But everything mustn’t have been that bad, right?

Sure, they argued at times and maybe Allison wasn’t always so nice at times and Diego wasn’t always angry and Klaus wasn’t always sober and Luther didn’t always talk too her and Ben didn’t always stop by her room, but once Five came back, everything would come back. 

Right?

They would go back to having donuts together and she would be able to play again and Five would listen and tell him not to listen to anything their dad said because he was ‘an ass' and she shouldn’t listen to him because she sounds fine and it would be so  _ lonely _ anymore.

_ Right? _

_ ('No.' A part of her whispers, the part she hates, hates, hates. 'He didn't always listen to you. He didn't always talk to you. He wasn’t all sunshine and peaches.) _

Memories are a tantalizing thing, a reminder of what she once had, and they were her saving grace in the darkness of this home. But now, it’s a sour tange on her tongue, like the pills sliding down her throat. Leaving her empty and sad and apathetic.

_ She remembers walking down the halls late at night, the hallway dark and quiet. She had been practicing in her room, still new to her new instrument but just as excited. Her fingers had gone numb and her palms aching from the tension. She had gone down for a cup of water, the music sheets crinkled in her hands. _

_ The piece had been fun to learn and she wanted to be perfect at it in a vain hope that maybe, just maybe, Dad would smile down on her one day. At least, she hopes he does. Then maybe she, too, could be good at something like her siblings were as heroes-in-training. _

_ It had been quiet in the house, a stillness in the air so odd when all she had grown up with was chatter and arguing and siblings. She had yet to become used to the quietness of the house and her siblings had yet to go on missions, so it was odd not hearing their voices at all hours of the day. _

_ So when she had gone down to get some water, her sibling's voices made her pause. _

_ “If you had listened to me-“ _

_ “Oh, that’s rich. If I’d listen to you, we’d all be filled with bullet holes by the end of the first mission.” _

_ That was Five’s voice, she realized not even a second later and he sounded  _ mad _. For all the years she had grown up with her siblings, she had known Five to be quick-tempered, annoyed, and somewhat of an asshole, but she had never heard him this mad before. She wondered why- what could they possibly be arguing about now to make her brother outright furious. _

_ There was a heavy silence. The tension in the air so evident, Vanya could taste it.  _

_ “Shut up.” She heard Luther snap out, but it sounded wobbly. Awkward despite the clear threat and challenge in his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, Dad put me in charge- not you- and if he says-“ _

_ “So what if Dad picked you? What? You want a prize or something? Whop-de-do! Dad picked you to be leader-“ _

_ “Because I’m Number One! Not you! So you have to listen to what I say or I’ll-“ _

_ “Or you’ll what? Tell Dad? Wow, Number One, do you still need dear ol’ daddy to fight for you? You still need someone to tell you how great you are? How superior you are to all of us? Grow up, Number One. Numbers don’t mean shit- only to Dad.” _

_ “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” _

_ There was a pause. The arguing stopped.  _

_ Vanya was very tempted to peek around the corner to see what had happened, but she’d rather not risk it. Especially when the air felt very, very still. _

_ “Uh, oh,” She heard Klaus mutter from somewhere in the room. _

_ “What are you talking about?” She heard Five growl and, uh oh indeed, because she heard the harshness in his voice, the deep, almost soft snarl lacing his words and she knew what it meant: he wasn't mad anymore, he was furious. _

_ Vanya couldn't help but shift away just a tad. _

_ “I mean,” She heard Luther begin, the triumph in his voice. “That you’re not one to talk. You call me someone, er, superior to others when you’re the one hanging around Vanya a lot.” _

_ Vanya froze by her spot near the corner. What did that mean? _

_ “I don’t see what she has anything to do about this.” _

_ “I’m saying that, for all the crap you give us about being better than us, you still need Number Seven to remind yourself just how great you are. Isn't that why you hang around her a lot? So you can feel better about yourself? _

_ Vanya...  _

_ She... she... didn't understand. _

_ What... what did Luther mean by that?  _

_ “You’re wrong.” Five seethed out and Vanya felt herself shy away from the anger boiling in his tone. She knew that tone. He was going to say something awful. Had felt its' sting before. “I don’t need her. I don’t need any of you. Not even Dad. So what if you’re leader, Number One. All you can do is throw people around.” _

_ “I, for one,” She heard Five seethe and seethe and burn. “Am better than both of you. In every way. I can be anywhere at any time. I can calculate the distance a bad guy is from us and stop him before any of you can. I'm in a whole different ballpark than you, Luther. Better than any of you. And Vanya, she’s not even remotely special. She’s useless and ordinary and simple- and I don’t need to stoop to anything that low to have any sort of validation to me. Unlike you-“ _

_ Vanya felt her feet walking backwards, her heart pit-pattering in her chest rattling her rib cage, stuttering the breath in her lungs. There was a pain growing in her chest and she didn’t- she wasn’t- _

_ The music sheets flutter out of her trembling hands, but she doesn’t care. All she cares about is moving, moving, moving. She doesn’t care if her footsteps are loud, or if she’s just blown her cover. All she cares about is running up, up, up the stairs. _

_ All she cares about is the hurt in her heart and the words in her head. _

_ Not even remotely special. _

_ Useless, ordinary, and simple. _

_ The words hurt and poke and stab. But he didn’t mean it, she knows it. He was just mad. He always says mean things when he’s mad. He’ll come to apologize. He always does. _

_ And when he does so with her music sheets in hand, a notebook in the other, and a tangent ready on his tongue, Vanya does what she always does and shoves aside the raw hurt and pain.  _

_ She ignores the argument she wasn’t meant to overhear and the feelings the pills don’t take away.  _

_ If there’s one thing all her siblings are good at is ignoring.  _

So good, in fact, that they never realized they stopped being a family a while ago.

Vanya wonders when that was.

She wonders when they can have it back. She wonders if they even  _ can _ .

_ 'Was it ever possible,’ _ Something whispers to her. ‘Even when he was here? Was it ever possible?'

_ (What if it never was?) _

Vanya sighs, and reaches for the knob to her room-

“Ah, Vanya. There you are.” Mom’s voice echoes through the empty house and Vanya turns towards the melodic voice.” I was just coming to get you.”

Vanya blinks up at her, surprised. “Me?”

Why did she need her? What help could useless, naïve Vanya possibly contribute to anything Mom did. If anything, it should be Diego she should be asking, he was always the one helping Mom the most; whenever she needed anything, Diego was there. 

Except Diego wasn't home right now- but she was. 

She should be grateful that Mom asked for her help in the first place; it wasn't every day anyone other than Diego got to be around Mom.

It was an impossible chore to be able to see Mom, much less spend time with her. Out of the adults in the house- Pogo not included- Mom was the one she liked to see. Mom always greeted them with a smile on her face, constant and everpresent in a house where all she saw from their father was a scowl or a frown. She was the one who tucked them into bed and read to them in a small pile when they were little and who always made sure everyone had brushed their teeth and did their homework and that their room was tidy. She was the one who complimented her on her violin lessons.

Mom had a warm presence and Vanya loved her for that. Whenever she complimented anything she did on her violin, something warm and mushy and overwhelming flooded her, chanting for more, more, more because no one really ever complimented on her playing.

Except now, looking at her Mom's smile, seeing her red lips pulled back into a grin, it makes something twist and jerk inside her. Like something was telling her to move, move, _ move. _

And for the life of her, she can't understand why.

It was odd.

Maybe her new medication was making her feel icky. Or maybe it was because Mom was asking for her help and that  _ never _ happened before. 

Mom never came to her, not outright. And she knew why; Vanya wasn't like the others. She couldn't fight and she never got hurt, she never needed any wounds stitched or bones set, and she rarely ever got sick.

Vanya wasn’t like the others, bright burning stars in the sky. It was no wonder Mom never came to her for help, not when her siblings would be much better help.

After all, what could she do that her siblings couldn't?

The answer: nothing. And yet Mom was still smiling down at her. She was still standing there, looking at her expectedly.

The sediment should have made her cheeks warm and a smile bloom on her face and something warm and fuzzy blossom inside her- but she didn't.

All she thought was run, _ run, run. _

_ (Why?) _

“I need your help, dear.” She said, all smiles and sunshine. “It’s for your siblings.”

Oh. Of course. Vanya tried not to frown at them because she should have known it would be about her superpowered siblings. It always led back to them.

“...What do you need?” She said, trying not to sound too bitter. But Mom answered her with a hand on her cheek.

“It’s a surprise.” She whispered as if it was some sort of secret. “But I seem to need a little help. Do you mind being my little helper today? Your father has told me the mission was a success. That deserves a treat, don’t you think.”

Vanya tilts her head. The Umbrella Academy must have had a successful mission indeed; Dad never let her siblings get anything not made at home- sweets included. That's why those late-night donut runs were always so special to them- to all of them. “What kind of treat?” She wonders out loud. 

Her siblings, for as different as they are from each other, do enjoy sweets. Especially Mom’s baked goods. And Vanya has to agree; Mom makes the best double chocolate chip cookies. Which made her wonder... will they be making cookies? Or cake? She had never made a cake before. Maybe it would be fun?

_ (Maybe it could distract her from her thoughts.) _

Mom hums, looking thoughtful. Vanya can't help but think how pointless it is to morph her expression that way. This was Mom. If anyone already knew what to get her siblings, it was her. It was, after all, how she was programmed.

_ ('I wonder if she feels emotions,' She wondered.) _

_ (Five would know the answer to that. He always did.) _

“How about donuts?” Vanya startles slightly at Mom's suggestion. 

Vanya, for as ill as she feels on her new pills, can’t help but feel that small inkling of surprise. Dad never lets Mom outside, not even for the grocery shopping- he hires weekly groceries to be delivered to the house every week- and Vanya would feel sad about that if she wasn’t already feeling mellow enough. 

It's a sharp contrast to the jitteriness she was feeling earlier. Maybe it's a side effect of her new medication. That's not surprising- she had been taking the pills since she was little- but it is throwing her for a loop to feel things so strongly one second and then to seemingly burn out the next. It’s weird to think about; to have bouts of nerves from medication that's supposed to take that feeling away.

And right now, she just feels… tired. Not drained, but weary.

“Okay,” She says, a little more slowly; hesitantly. While donuts do sound good, great even, and something she needs when the memory of donuts is getting drowning, battered, and broken by the present obvious fact that the memory of the one person she thought she had tucked safely inside her heart wasn't always nice. In fact, it was the opposite and the sudden jarring clarity makes something heavy bear down on her shoulders.

But donuts. A warm pleasant donut. Maybe that can cheer her up. Give her hope. Help her remember all the good instead of the questionable memories she still had. Still cherished.

So Vanya nods. “What do I have to do?” She says because Mom may not be allowed out but Vanya is- or, well, she's never been  _ told _ to not go outside. Still, she’s not sure what to do out there. During missions, when she was allowed to with the Umbrella Academy, she wasn’t allowed to go inside the buildings, only look from afar. So she's seen people and employees and shops, she just hasn't, um,  _ interacted _ with them. Her siblings, though, conversed with people all the time. It was mostly to calm down civilians and the like, but still, it was more expertise than Vanya.

_ (And half the time, did anyone know about Number Seven? The outcast of the Umbrella Academy? The invisible ghost so ordinary and normal that whenever she was outside, no one paid her any mind.) _

But her siblings aren’t here. It’s just her. It usually was.

And yet, Mom asked for  _ her _ help. It was hard to say no.

Mom hums and pulls out a 20$ bill from the counter. Vanya blinks. Dad must have left that there, he must have. He was a strict father, but he was even stricter with money. Not that it was theirs. Allowances were never a thing for the siblings, much less for her.

“Good. Now, I’ve heard there’s a lovely donut shop a few blocks from here. I think this suffice, don’t you think?” Mom smiles, slipping the paper into her grasp.

The bill is crisp on her hands as if it wasn’t touched much. It feels new, perfect in an odd sense. And yet, Vanya can already see the small creases wrinkling underneath her fingers. Almost like she was soiling her father's money with her mere touch.

“Now,” Her mother continues and Vanya tucked the bill securely into her pocket. “Your father is scheduled to arrive in about thirty-eight minutes and ten seconds. I think 5 donuts should be enough.”

That word catches her off guard. “Five donuts?” She says, and it comes out weak and mumbly. She can feel her mood dampen slowly in soggy weariness. 

Mom nods. “Your father stated treats for the Umbrella Academy."

For a moment, the strange mellow feeling darkens. For a moment, Vanya can't help but feel her hands clench. Can't help but feel her teeth grind, grind, grind against each other. Can't help but feel that small inkling of  _ something _ flicker to life. Because...  _ Because... _

“Why not 6?” She asks and her voice wavers. Her chest aches. Her lungs stutter. “Why- why not 6?”

Mom’s smile falters. Her eyes titch. “I’m sorry, dear.” She coos and Vanya can feel something inside herself rattle at the  _ sickeningly _ _ sweet _ tone. “Your father only said the Umbrella Academy..”

“And I'm not part of the Umbrella Academy,“ She feels herself blurting out and the next ones feel hot. Like coal smoldering in the smoke. 

Mom stares at her for a moment and Vanya can practically see the gears turn as her mother freezes. There’s a slight hesitation in Mom as she smiles at her again. For one moment, Vanya wishes for the sympathy in her tone, the one that helped her believe again and again and again.

And she needs those words like a dehydrated man needs water. Like fire needs wood. Like how fish needs the sea. She needs these words, just so she can believe again. She needs to dream because that’s all she has.

_ (Dream of those late-night donut runs.  _

_ Dream of math equations and her brother's whirlwind of a presence. Dream of a time where her siblings were an actual family and she was apart of it.) _

“Oh, Vanya,” Her mother says and there’s something so plastic about the way her red lips curl upwards that it makes Vanya sick. “How would you like to put on a little performance when you get back? I would love to hear how your violin practices are coming along.”

And Vanya…  _ Vanya _ …

The flicker of light sparks and crackles. Her heart goes  _ bump-bump-bump _ in her chest. Her fingers curl further into her hand, sinking into her fleshy palm and marking the delicate skin there. And, oh, how she wants to break it. To let herself shout and yell and scream and curse every word she knows. There’s a ringing in her ears. The feeling of crashing waves and silent violins in her heart. 

Music was once a solace for her, but now the memories are becoming tainted because it  _ wasn't _ anymore. And the worst part? It wasn't even her  _ choice _ . 

_ She _ never got a choice on whether or not Allison was annoyed that day.  _ She _ never got a choice to not being able to pick up the one thing she hated and yet loved at the same time.  _ She _ never got a choice in whether or not she was apart of the Umbrella Academy.  _ She _ never got a choice in her birth or how special she could have been popped out of the womb.  _ She _ never got a choice about being left on her own in a silent house.  _ She _ never got a choice when Five left.

She doesn't even have a  _ choice _ if he even comes back or not.

And Vanya…  _ Vanya…. _

She rushes out the door and onto the sidewalk outside.

The sun is shining. The birds are singing. The sidewalk is a kaleidoscope of grays in her blurry vision. The people chatting away are oblivious to her- little, ordinary Vanya- because she’s just like them. And there’s no silence of the house, only chatter from ordinary people. No echoing hallways, only honking cars. No fake smiles and tainted memories, only an unknown world she hasn’t seen yet.

Vanya breathes in. And out.

In.

And out.

‘ _ Oh, Vanya.’ _ Her mother’s voice whispers to her, so much like Ben. 

In.

In.

_ In. _

The exhale is sharp coming out.

The tears are forming in the corner of her eyes. She knows it is. She can feel it in the welling warmth growing near her eyes. Tell it by the blurriness in her vision. And she hates it. She hates it so much she wants to cry. But she can’t- there’s no privacy here, only people. And privacy was in her home, a home full of tainted memories and empty hallways and Vanya.. she doesn't want to  _ cry _ .

She won’t. 

It's worse when she doesn't even know why she's crying.

She's known since she was little where she stands in the house. She knows her place and she knows her own ranking. Number Seven- it's what Dad's called her all her life and it's a title she's never been able to forget. How could she? She may be named Vanya now but "Number Seven" was always who she was: the last of the pack, the last number, the runt, and in regards to the Umbrella Academy, the invisible, forgotten, ordinary one. 

That's all she's known for. It's all she's been known for all her life. And yet, for some reason, it makes her so...  _ upset _ . And she hates it- feeling like this. Feeling like she's less. Like she's some fragile, pitiful  _ thing. _

_ (Because it's what she's been all her life and she hates it.) _

_ ‘Oh, Vanya. _ ’ Her mother's- Ben's- voice whispers in her ear and her nails dig into the flesh of her skin. 

_ ('Five would never talk to her like that,' A part of her comments.) _

_ ('No, he wouldn't- because he's no here anymore.' Another part of her retorts and she tells herself to shut up.) _

Shut up,  _ shut up _ , _ shut up _ \- 

_ Ding ding. _

Vanya startles, feet backpedaling backward away from the sudden noise. She jerks her head up and tears her gaze away from the blurry sidewalk to see a small, dingy donut shop.

Vanya blinks. She's here already? But... she didn't expect to walk here so fast. Maybe her medication was affecting her more than she thought, to be this oblivious to the world. 

So oblivious, in fact, that she hadn't noticed when she’d arrived at the donut shop. It’s as small as she remembers and those late-night donut runs flood her mind and she takes it because she wants to think of something happy for once.

But all she feels is mellow.

The bell rings again as she enters.

The donut shop was the same as she remembered. Sunlight streamed in through smudged windows, casting its bright rays onto the ripped booth seats. The yellow fluorescent lights flickered up above, complementing the dark accents contrasting with the paleness of the white floors. The walls, boring and faded, brightened under the flickering lights, illuminating the mismatched stains and odd patches lining the wall. Coffee and the aroma of fried donuts assaulted her nose. Lighted pictures of donuts and coffee, generic and simple, glowed yellow on the walls, bringing out the blandness of the brown walls.

Vanya breathed in the smell of stale coffee and greasy donuts. It smelled so familiar and yet, so distant. She had a hint of a memory pass her- ones of frosting-covered hair and laughing siblings- before the memory stales in her mouth, the aftertaste off-putting. And yet-  _ still _ \- Vanya wanted to just simply… be here. To stand here and remember the smile on Allison's face, the friendly challenge in Diego and Luther's eyes, the presentness of Klaus, and the presence of her siblings around her during a time when they were there and they did include her in things and they did talk to her.

Now all they seemed to do was forget her.

But that was a long time ago. Now, Klaus was a drifter, Deigo was always angry, Allison was becoming more and more distant, Luther was being more of a hero than her brother, Ben was a distant mess, and Five was... was gone. 

_ ‘He's not coming back.’ _

She pushed Klaus' voice aside, the memory whispering in her ear, and walked to the counter. There wasn't time to be reminiscent of the past. Her father was expecting her home with donuts for her siblings and she didn't want to disappoint.

_ (Not that she didn't do that already.) _

Old wrappers and crinkled napkins crinkled under her foot as she walks past the flickering lights above and the dreary aesthetic of the shop around her. It would have made for a dull atmosphere, if not for the lady by the counter. The only pop of vibrant color in the donut shop was the blond-haired waitress at the front of the counter. She looked tired and her hair was spilling out of her neat bun. There were wrinkles under her eyes, but Vanya didn’t think it was from smiling so much.

The donut smell got even stronger as she neared the counter. 

There was an old lady on the side of her, a chocolate éclair sitting warm on her plate. On her other side, an old man sat with a cup of coffee. He was looking in a newspaper. 

The headlines “UMBRELLA ACADEMY DOES IT AGAIN!” made her look away.

The woman had just finished serving the old lady a cup of coffee when she saw Vanya. There are dark circles under her eyes, an exhaustion that resembled Klaus so much it hurts, and yet she still gave Vanya a smile, a bit a tired one. It made it seem more real, in a sense. Nothing at all like Mom's constant, bright smiles. She held up a finger, a _ ‘one moment please _ ’ gesture.

It only takes about a minute for the waitress to get to her.

“Hello,” She says, a false perkiness in her tone. The same tired smile stretches across her face. “What can I get for you?”

“Um, two chocolate donuts, two jelly-filled with glaze, and a raspberry-filled with sprinkles.”

The words are like water on her tongue, flowing and effortless. It may have been a while since she’s been out- or out in general- but she never forgot her sibling's orders, even after all these years. She wonders if that’s an odd thing or not. Or maybe a bit sad. Yeah, maybe a little. Then again, it wasn't like she thought her family might one day come by the donut shop again, like old times. It's not like she thought they would sit in a booth, far from others, and eat donuts until one of them threw up. And when one of them had to pay, they'd pay with money they had gotten from Dad's safe. 

_ (Except Five's not here anymore and neither are the rest of her siblings. They barely even talk anymore.) _

The ache in her chest grows.

The waitress nods before turning around. As she passes, she gives the old man a refill.

Vanya looks around. All the booths are taken, but there are still some of the bar seats available. Vanya sits on the bar stool next to her. Beside her, the old man hasn’t touched his coffee. And he’s still reading the same newspaper. And when she glances over as she sits down, she sees him glancing at her. 

For a moment, she wonders if she's done something wrong. She doesn’t think she did, but maybe she did, and the thought sparks something alive in her chest because what if she did- oh. Maybe it’s because she’s still wearing her uniform, not that she can take it off. 

She brushes off the old man’s gaze and looks away. Her fingers tap on the countertop. She forgets sometimes, that while she’s not part of the Umbrella Academy, she still wears the uniform they wear. 

_ (And despite all that, she’s never been one of them.) _

The heaviness on her shoulders drapes over her. The donuts don’t smell so nice anymore. 

“Here you go,” The waitress says as she plops the greasy bag onto the counter. She takes a moment to throw away the now-empty coffee cup from the now-empty bar stoll. Vanya blinks. Huh, guess the old man left already.

Though he left his newspaper.

The newspaper stares at her from the countertop.

_ “UMBRELLA ACADEMY!” _

_ “UMBRELLA ACADEMY!” _

_ “UMBRELLA ACADEMY-“ _

Vanya looks away, but the gaping hole retches open even more. When she gives the waitress the money- with the parting words  _ “Keep the change” _ \- she all but storms out of the donut shop. She couldn't help it. She just... she could stand to see her siblings, all smiling and laughing for the cameras. She should be proud. SHe should b happy for them- but all she feels when she sees that picture is bitterness. She doesn't like the feeling. She doesn't like her new medications making her feel so.. so icky. She doesn't like being the fact that she can't play her damn violin when she wants to play more than anything in the world but at the same time, she wants her brother home but none of those are possible because nothing in her life had ever been  _ possible _ and nothing had been  _ right _ either and she hates that and-

So lost is Vanya in her thoughts that she doesn't notice the figure in front of her. Not until, that is, she bumps into them. The old man lets out a small grunt as her tiny body collides with his. The bag falls from her hands in surprise as she stumbles back. Her feet back peddling on her and for a second, she's sure she’s going to fall- but then a hand grasps her arm.

“Watch it, “The old man grumbles non-too-kindly as she steadies herself on her feet. She manages to do so- ungracefully, of course- her hands tight around greasy, warm donuts and shoulders tense. 

“Sorry,” She says automatically. It’s a familiar word on her tongue, a remembered action she unconsciously states-moves-does. It’s a word that’s she’s all too familiar with. 

She’s prepared for a snap. A smart remake. The words “Kids these days….” The blunt tone of ‘Number Seven,’ and the annoyed gaze. 

She’s not prepared for nothing.

She hears a huff and the sound of shoes on concrete. When she looks up, the old man looks away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then he snaps it shut and opens the door. His back is to her.

“Just watch where you’re going next time,” He mutters, back to her. But he still holds the door open for her enough to pass by before he’s speedwalking away. Vanya does the same, embarrassment red on her face. What a fool she made of herself. What could Dad say...

Oh...

She  _ hopes _ she's not late.

_ ‘Stupid, Vanya,’  _ Her brain tells her.  _ ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid. Not only did you waste that old man's time, but also Dad's as well.' _

She sincerely hopes he won't be mad when she gets back.

Who is she kidding? Of course he will. She had never been anything but a disappointment to him since the day she was born. A disappointment- and a waste of time.

In a way, that’s all she ever amounted to: a waste. After all, what had she done in her short life compares to the rest of her family? Her siblings, bright star they were, had done more than she ever could with her simple violin.

She couldn't fight villains like her siblings. Couldn't be a hero. Couldn’t throw men out of windows or throw knives. She couldn’t have someone around her finger with just a phrase and she couldn't pull creatures from other dimensions. 

She almost screwed up her donut retrieval, if she hadn’t bumped into the old man like a naïve child. A naive,  _ useless  _ child.

Not even after her brother had run out of the house, door slamming shut, she couldn't even muster the courage to get up and follow after him. 

_ ‘Oh Vanya, _ ’ The words, once soft and pitiful, grated harshly against her ear.  _ ‘Vanya, Vanya, Vanya…’ _

What once made her feel soft and warm, now morphed into something pitiful and grating. Gaping and empty. Reminded her that even though there weren’t any walls surrounding her or any noisy siblings echoing around her, that she was just as trapped as she as in the four walls in her room.

It doesn’t take her long to get back home. It feels too soon, though.

The sunshine on her skin fades away to the mellow temperature of the house. The coolness from the breeze on her skin drops away to the absent wind in the house. The shining sun rays disappear to the fluorescent lights and colored windows lighting the room.

Vanya expects Dad to be waiting by the door, her siblings stationed in a neat row by his side. She expects silent disappointment to be her greeting call than a friendy hello. She expects anger from her siblings and heated words fueled by their impatience. 

Except she gets... nothing.

Nothing- and Mom.

“Welcome home, Vanya,” Mom greets her, a grin on her face. Vanya tries very, very hard not to look away. “You're just in time. Your father and siblings will be home in approximately one minute and six seconds. I believe you have the donuts?”

Vanya nods and hands her the greasy bag. The smell of chocolate and cheap sprinkles floods her nostrils and the brief nostalgia is strong, but its grip on her is short-lived at the bitterness it now holds.

“Thank you, dear. You’ve been a big help.” Mom plucks the bag out of her hands and, without another word, turns towards the stairs. Usually, Mom’s moments of praise feels like water in a desert; something refreshing and strong and a savior in her darkest moments, but now... 

It just feels... empty. Just like Mom's smile.

She wonders if that's a good thing or not. She's leaning more towards the latter.

She's not sure how she feels about it yet.

Vanya stands still for a moment. The house is still the same. Nothing has changed. The floorboards still creak. The hallways are still quiet. The distant blunt tone of her father is audible even on the different levels of the house.

“…Number Four,” She can hear him say. “You did manage to keep a lookout, but you did a piss job of it. Not only did the man almost get away, but it almost cost the world a nuclear weapon. You’re lucky Number Six’s power was able to stop it. Disappointing, but not surprising…”

Vanya walks upstairs when she hears the beginning of his rant. She never liked to hear him scold them, much less scolding her. It always made her feel insecure, weak, wrong. Like she couldn’t get anything right. It  _ reminded _ her of it.

She didn't need any more reminders- other than what she had constantly whirling in her thoughts now. 

She goes upstairs, past her father’s drifting sounds of pen on paper mixed in with his scathing tone, and walks down the hall to her room. 

It’s as plain as she left it. The bedsheets are neat and tucked in. The curtain is pulled shut. Her violin is still shoved in the corner. 

_ ‘I heard a rumor...’ _ Allison’s voice ghost in her ear. 

Vanya briefly contemplates chasing that sentence when a headache blooms in her skull. She grimaces, sitting on her bed. Maybe she  _ shouldn't _ do that.

She stares at her violin. It looks so  _ lonely _ .

_ (All she wanted to do was play her violin. That's all she wanted to do.) _

The sight makes something clench inside her, tighter and tighter until she tears her eyes away because she's shaking, palms sweaty and vision blurry because all she wants to do is play her violin. Is that so much to ask? Just to pick it up and play it once more? That's all she wants- just to play. Why was that so hard? Why was it so  _ painful _ ? Why did it have to hurt and hurt and  _ hurt _ ? 

She wants to scream, shout, yell. She wants to throw this pain out and for once let herself be heard because she forgot what that felt like and the last person who listened to her left and one trailed after a brother who was destroying himself and there was nothing she could do but take and take and  _ take _ .

She wanted so badly to  _ cry _ .

Because maybe if she'd just been a little braver, a little stronger, she could have grabbed Five’s jacket and stopped him from leaving. She could have stopped him and he still would have been here to talk to Ben in that blunt way that tore away all the insecurity. Maybe he could have stopped Klaus from destroying himself. Gave Deigo an outlet for his anger. Given Luther the ego drop he needed and told him what was wrong. Maybe he could have been strong enough to tell Allison to let her play again. She knew she wasn't. She never was.

Weak, weak Vanya.

And it kills her inside because… because…

_ ‘Oh, Vanya. Vanya, Vanya. It’s not all sunshine and peaches.’ _

He had... He did...

_ ‘He left us,’  _

And it hurts because she never thought he would leave. She thought he wouldn't come back. 

She thought he  _ cared _ .

Maybe he didn't. Maybe he never did. After all, who would ever think about useless, naive, ordinary Vanya? 

The answer? No one. 

Motion is constant beyond her door. Footsteps clamber down the halls left and right. Voices drift high and low through the halls. Light pools from underneath her door, giving her a taste of the wonders of outside. Letting her have something other than the silence of the house. 

But right now, she doesn't care. All she wants to do right now is play her violin and think and remember the way the donuts smelled or the laughter of her siblings or the warmth that once came from Mom's rare smiles.

All she wants to do is sit here and be.

_ (He left us. Left us, left us-‘) _

All she wants to do is sit here and dream and wish and hope because that’s all she‘s been able to do. All she’s been good for. She can’t play the violin good enough, can’t talk to her siblings, and can’t seem to do anything but be ordinary in a house full of extraordinary.

She can’t even stop her brother from leaving her.

_ Knock. Knock. _

Vanya blinks in what feels like a long time. She sits up. The pool of light is gone. The room is darker.

“Come in,” She says after a moment, but her words feel hoarse and soft and hushed. She couldn't care less to open her door, so she stays put. Maybe then the other person will leave her alone.

But then the knob turns and-

Vanya's eyes widen.

“Ben? What are you doing here?”

The first thing she notes is his uniform, tie untucked, and shirt wrinkled and  _ clean _ \- which is also the first good sign. But then she sees his face and the second good sign slaps her across the face.

Ben smiles- actually  _ smiles _ \- as he enters her room and that act alone is enough to astound her. He never smiles after missions, much less visit his sister when he would prefer the solitude of his room. Today's mission must have gone  _ really _ well.

“Hi, Vanya,” He says. "It's awfully quiet in here, which is weird. You're always playing your violin."

"Oh. Uh, I... just don't feel like playing right now." She replies, still a bit stuck on the fact that one of her siblings is in her room. 

_ (It's been such a long time.) _

Ben blinks. “Oh, uh, ok then.”

He pauses. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. It’s quiet for a moment.

_ (Vanya hates the silence.) _

Finally- ‘You didn’t come to dinner.” He states more than asks.

“Wasn’t hungry,” Is all she says. She’s still sitting on her bed, and the urge to move- stand up and, I don’t know, greet him?- is strong. Their father had taught them from a young age and it was definitely showing in the way her body twitches to move, to stand up tall and proper, and the words on her tongue ready to fire because Dad always told them  _ “some situations require you to speak and if you must, your voice can be a powerful tool in certain circumstances.”  _ It doesn’t feel like a tool right now; more like a rusted screwdriver, creaking and groaning as you twist the handle.

She feels rusted, worn; her arms sag by her sides, her hands are limp on the bedsheets, and her shoulders slouch. Locks of her brown hair tumble into her field of view, obscuring some of her sight of her dark, tiny room. There's a lingering ache in her fingertips, one that reminds her of the sore calluses still residing on her skin, but it's a distant pain. A deep ache that feels like it should be there, but it's not and the fact that it should, bothers her more than she ever thought it could.

She used to hate the calluses on her fingers, the way the thin strings of her violin dug into her tender skin over and over again, and yet now, she finds she misses it.

But most of all, she misses playing. She misses hearing the melody of her violin, the sharpness of her notes, and the shaky vibrato she never quite mastered yet. She misses the feeling of the sleek exterior against her fingers, the smoothness of her bow staff, the scratchy roughness if the bristles lining it. And she misses her calluses that ached with each brush of a bristle or wood or cloth because at least then, she knew she was getting better. That one day, her practice would pay off and that the pain would count for something.

Now, the absence of it all makes something physically fierce twinge in her chest.

_ (Like how the absence of her brother makes something, little by little, break away with each day he never comes back home.) _

So much so that she hadn't noticed the hunger pains in her stomach, and hadn't cared much for it regardless. She hadn't noticed the ache in her chest, the tension in each breath she inhaled. She hadn't noticed the way she leans forward, slouching in a way their father always reprimanded them not to, and in the way her head tilts downwards, her eyes trained steadily at Ben’s feet.

It’s quiet, and the silence feels reminiscent to awkwardness. But she doesn't feel awkward. There’s no shuffling of feet nor the eyes trained on the floor. No firey ants crawling up the skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps or the looming, hyperfocus feeling of someone else in the room with you.

Maybe that's a sign the pills are working.

Or maybe it's something else. Vanya doesn't really care enough right now to ponder on that because Ben's still hovering in the doorway. He’s unmoving in front of her door, unwavering in the silence she holds in her room and he’s  _ still there. _

He could just… leave. He  _ should _ leave. But he doesn't, and his eyes burn a hole so reminiscent of the portrait hanging above a fireplace downstairs.

She can feel the need to look up, to meet his eyes with something akin to apologetic in her own and sing the oh, so familiar tune of ‘ _ sorry'  _ until he finally forgives her and leaves. Forgive her for what? She's not sure. She's never sure, just that she's sorry. 

_ (Usually, that works whenever her siblings are mad or annoyed or upset.) _

But she doesn’t, doesn’t feel like it. Because she feels tired and sad and numb and all she wants to do is lie here and look at the bare walls and try to remember something better. Find memories that weren’t bitter and stale, but all she sees is a dimly lit sidewalk and a dingy donut shop and a knock on her door with the words " _ Let’s go, _ ” brushing past her ear. There’s no warmth or excitement racing in her heart, just numbness and an ache so deep, it’s painful.

Then, finally and with a resignation Vanya felt exhaling through her body, Ben shifts. It’s a small motion; a shuffle of feet. A swing of his hand. A shift in his step, shifting from one foot to the other.

And she knows what happens next. He’ll leave. It’s an unavoidable happening, an insured notion that’s more than bound to happen. It was rare for her siblings to stop by anymore, and it’s even more rarer if they stay around. Her interaction with Klaus feels like a distant memory- even though it happened only a few days ago and it’s been haunting her since.

Because she got a taste of socialization, of being involved in something so warm as family. That for one short moment, Klaus was her brother and she was his sister and not some stranger next door intimate with the ghost of your waking world. For a moment, she was Vanya and a sister and Klaus was Klaus and he was her brother and for a short instance, that’s all they were. Just two siblings having a conversation in the dead of night.

And it was nice. Warm. It felt like late-night donut runs and math tutoring and sleepovers all over again.

Then the memory soured. The dream popped like a bubble, unstable and weak, at the look in Klaus’ eyes, at the scratching from his bedroom wall, and the flickering sound of a lighter coming from behind his closed door. Klaus wasn’t the same as before, funny and witty and always playful.  _ They _ weren't the same as before. She... she’s not sure what they are now and that familiarity she once held crumbles in her hands.

It breaks her heart.

And seeing Ben? Standing in her room as he used to when they were younger- Five at his side and a book in his hands- conflicts with her present- him, standing there awkwardly in her room as if the notion of standing there wasn’t comforting as it used to be when he came into her room after a mission and just sat and listened to her play. Now, it’s awkward and uncomfortable.

It hurts, it really does. But Vanya is tired. Tears feel like too much effort at this point and all she wants to do is stare out her wall and ignore her violin and be nothing for a bit. At least in that, she can gain some grasp of what once was and if anything is ever constant in Vanya’s life, then being set aside has been the one thing that hasn’t changed.

So she waits for him to leave. Waits for the closing of her door and the soft shuffling of feet on polished floorboards.

Except… it never comes.

She excepts it to happens- knows by now that it will- but still, Ben stands there and it’s weird and odd and uncomfortable, but it makes Vanya look up despite the apathy she feels.

“Um,” She says, even though her tongue feels like an anchor and her brain wants nothing more than to do nothing- much less talk. “Can I… help you?”

It sounds rude, so rude. What if he thinks she’s being mean? Or hostile? The thoughts feel so familiar. The overthinking taste of nostalgia, and yet Vanya finds that for once, she doesn’t care. All she wants to do is lie here. Why can’t life, for once, just leave her be? Why can't her family? They’ve done that all their lives. Surely the universe can make an exception.

But Ben doesn’t move. He doesn’t walk out the door like she excepts- knows- or awkwardly make up an excuse and leave. He just… hands her a bag.

“Here,” Ben says as he holds it up, “I… didn’t know if you’ve already had one, but since you haven't eaten dinner, maybe this will do?”

Vanya blinks. The paper bag from Grizzy’s Donut Shop stares at her. It’s still greasy, the stain is still here, and the smell of donuts lingers on the bag.

Vanya looks up. Ben stares back.

“Why?” She asks, a whisper in her room.

It feels like a loaded question, the weight heavy on her tongue, but it drops out of her mouth just the same. And automatically, she tenses for the fallout.

But Ben doesn’t frown or huff or sigh. He just.. speaks.

“Because, as you already said, you haven’t eaten dinner. And I know it’s not exactly filling, but, well, I don’t want you to go hungry. And…” He pauses. Hesitates. Vanya understands why. Feelings are hard, especially for people as kind as Ben. Kindness is familiar. Honestly is not.

Hesitantly, she takes the bag. It’s cold under her fingers and nothing radiates from the bag but old icing and cold donuts. But her stomach rumbles nonetheless and she opens the bag.

A chocolate donut sits in the bag.

The warmth in her chest sputters to life.

“Now,” Ben says as he sits on her bed. “Eat up. Eating is important and good for you.”

She didn’t want to point out that donuts for dinner weren’t exactly healthy, but she stared down at it nonetheless, wanting. But….

“This is yours though,” Vanya says, not meeting his eyes. She can’t take this from him, not when she went down all those blocks to get it for them. Besides, this is a treat for him, not for her. She hadn’t done anything special to receive such a thing. Doing otherwise feels wrong and it bites at her skin.

Ben frowns at her and that old, familiar instinct to lower her head rears its’ head, guilt swirling in her stomach.

“Sorry,” She mumbles, the bag crinkling in her hand.

There’s a moment of silence before she hears a sigh.

“Here,” Her brother says as he takes the bag from her hands. She doesn't look up still. “How about this?”

Then he tears it in half. 

It’s such a simple thing to do, but Vanya is stunned nevertheless. She didn’t do anything to deserve such a treat. And it’s Ben’s; Dad had requested it specifically for him. Not for her. Never for her, fore what had she ever done to deserve anything like this.

“But…” She weakly protests, but Ben’s already shoving half the donut into her hands.

“No buts,” He tells her, a sternness lacing his words. “I’m giving it to you. Now, eat the donut.”

Vanya frowns, but she reluctantly takes a bite. “You sound like Mom,” She mumbles and Ben gives her shoulder a light push for her comment.

It’s been a long while since she’s had any sweet before and it’s nice. The chocolate icing is overly sweet and infectious and the cakiness of the donut is a bit mushy and a bit cold.

It’s one of the best things she’s eaten all day. Even better than Mom’s homemade cookies, when she does make them.

It’s quiet while they eat, but it’s not the same quiet of the house or of her room. It’s silent, no words spoken, but it’s not as... empty. 

Even when she finishes the last bite of her donut, licking the icing off her fingers, the silence isn’t so bad.

She finds she doesn’t mind it so much now.

Ben shifts in her peripheral.

“Hey… I know I made you upset the other day and I wanted to apologize. I… haven’t been around in a while and I’m…. I miss hearing your violin.”

It’s not an apology. Not a true one, at least. But she hears the sincerity, the unspoken words, and the kindness coating his words. He didn’t have to check up on her or bring her a snack. No one ever did. But he did and that…. That reminds her of sitting in that dingy donut shop hurdled up in the corner booth, that artificial light from above flickering on a mountain of donuts and giggly smiles.

It feels like warmth.

“It’s okay,” She replies because it is. And she understands; it’s hard being a superhero. It’s hard living in this house.

“No, it’s not,” Ben says, insistent. “I… I was… stressed and I took it out on you. It wasn’t right, especially since, well, I know what.... Five meant to you.”

Vanya looks up. It’s the first time anyone has said their missing brother’s name and it makes that heavy feeling rise back up again. Oh, how nice it is to hear his name; by now, their brother feels like a memory more than anything and Vanya hates it.

The frown on Ben's face compliments the dark bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin. 

She looks down again. “It’s fine. “ She says. And she means it this time. “It’s just… I miss him.” She says simply, and the raw unfiltered words pang her heart. Because she did.

She missed the way he bickered with Diego and how he always like to one-up Luther and how he thought pranks were stupid but joined Klaus and Ben in stealing Allison's brushes and how he used to sit in her room, notebook in hand, as he tried to solve unattainable equations. How he scowled when he was angry or impatient or how he pouted when he argued with Dad or the small smirk he tried to hide in those rare moments when everyone got along. She misses the temperamental attitude he held and the brattiness he exhibited on a daily basis. She still listens for the blimp of a jump and the squeakiness of his voice.

And it hurts because it’s all she remembers in her memories. That, and the fact that not here. 

Maybe he never will.

Ben sighs. It’s soft and breathy. “Me too.”

Then it’s quiet and heavy, but it’s not empty.

“Where do you think he is?” She finds herself asking. To the room. To Ben. To herself.

Ben shifts. “I’m not sure,” He says. “But wherever he is, there has to be a library.”

“And a donut shop,” She says.

“And a place willing to listen to a thirteen-year-old kid ramble in all hours of the night,” Ben says with a smile and Vanya feels the corner of her lips twitch up.

She hums. “Do you think he’s still in the city?” She asks.

Ben snorts. “Nope,” He says. “He always hated the rush hour in the morning. Said it was too noisy and that-“

“-it was a stupid concept for people too lazy to find another way around the city.” She finishes.

“What about a beach?” Ben asks.

Vanya hums. “Too sandy. He liked the heat, but he hated how vast the sea was. Said he liked to see where he was going.”

“I like the beach,” Ben says. “And one day, I want to go there.”

“The beach?” Vanya asks.

“Yeah, and make sandcastles and find seashells and swim in the sea. Who knows, maybe these guys will like it too.” He says as he looks down at his stomach.

And the idea sounds nice. Sounds warm.

“One day.” She says.

“One day,” He parrots back and it sounds like a promise too. "Though in the meantime, let's hear some of your music. It's been a while since I've listened to you play."

Vanya feels her smile fall. Feels the headache pounding in her head. "Oh, um, I can't. Not right now."

"Why?" He tilts his head and Vanya can't help the grimace as her skull rattles.

He looks at her for a long second, and Vanya's about to ask what's wrong when- "Oh."

Then he drags her from her room, down the hall, to the closed-door marked with stickers, and for the first time in a while, Vanya feels warm. 

It stays with her until morning, and when the mission alarm blares, he waves her goodbye. 

It's nice. She almost forgot how nice this had felt- to be remembered. To be reminded that she may have lost one brother, but she still has another one who never forgot her.

So she waits. She plays her violin for the first time in a while for hours and hours and hours and she waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Ben doesn’t come home.

He never comes back at all, but for this brother, as Vanya sees the blood and the gore through the tears in her eyes, she knows this one isn’t coming back.


	5. Stage 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acceptance is a bitter pill to swallow. The choice to move on is a hard one to make, and even then, a part of you always feels left behind in the rubble. That's how it feels for Vanya, at least.   
> But she does it- accept Five and Ben's absence- however hard it may be because while they're gone, she's still here. She's still here and her life is still in front of her. All she has left to do is choose what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thanks to anyone who read this and journeyed through this odd series. I wasn't in a good place when I began writing this; with everything that was happening, it was hard- no only for me, but what felt like the whole world. 
> 
> So I guess I'll close off with thanking everyone- again- for reading and to a better year for all of us.
> 
> WARNING: Mentions of depression, sensory overload, and grief.

It’s been a month since Ben’s died. A month since her world had been shaken yet again. 

It had been a month, and everything became  _ different, _ changed in a way that crumbled the ideal she once held; the familiarity of memories and wishful thinking of once was decaying. It was one thing to realize she wasn't a little kid and another thing to remember her siblings, for as much as she wanted things to go back to happier times, weren't children anymore. They had grown up and more specifically, they were heroes. 

They were heroes and she wasn't. Except for one-  _ two _ now.

Five was.... somewhere now. And Ben...

He wasn't home doing lessons with the rest of their siblings anymore and he wasn't out on any missions because he wasn't a superhero. Not anymore, at least. 

Ben wasn't anywhere anymore. 

It hurt to realize, to see it blindly in her face, that he was gone; she still leaned against her wall, ear pressed against the wood, to see if she could catch a snippet of his bickering with Klaus or even a bark of laughter. The only thing she was met with was the flickering of a lighter. She never did hear anything, and it crushed something inside her each time she pressed her ear against that wall.

As for everyone else...

She hadn't noticed much. It was hard to pay attention to others when you couldn't even focus on the fact that a couple of floors up, another room was empty and nothing could change that no matter how hard she cried at night.

Still, she can at least notice a few things. The house had always held an air of empty quietness, long dark hallways echoing cold and lifeless sounds, except now... it was different. Sounded different. Emptier. Quieter- the bad one that buzzed white noise in your ears until you could practically taste the hollow static echoing through the halls. The one that made the stillness in her room unbearable to the point where even her saving grace in the form of wood and strings couldn't save her from the barren, nonexistent sound.

( _ The one last good thing Ben had done for her was help get her violin back. She could still remember the hidden shame on Allison's face, the way her dark ears tinted pinkish as she snapped out a counter to her forgotten rumor. Because that's what it was. That's what Vanya was: Forgotten.) _

_ (Not to Ben though- the one, last good thing she still had. For a while. A second. A moment. And then he was gone, gone, gone and she was still here.) _

_ (She hadn't let her violin go since and yet, its usual vibrant, shrill sound felt swallowed up by the absence in the air.) _

The absence, the emptiness hanging potent in the air, reeked with the knowledge that someone wasn't there anymore. 

And they never would be.

Vanya remembers the day Five left and the hours after that. She had spent them all hovering near the railing, just waiting to hear that familiar snap resonating through the house or the flash of vibrant blue to bombard her eyes. Except it never came, nor the day after that. Then when a week had passed, Dad had found her.

Needless to say, Vanya decided waiting in her room was a much better option after that. Even to this day, she still presses her ear against the thick wood of her door, anticipation itching for those tell-tale sounds. Because in the end, her anticipation became a habit- even when it was blatantly obvious that her brother was coming back.

It was... hard to come to terms with- that her favorite brother wasn't coming back home. He wasn't going to help her in her math lessons anymore or sit on her desk and listen to her play or talk and talk and talk about the formulas and theories playing out in his head. She'd never get to see his agitated scowl or his arrogant smirk or the frustrated furrow in his brows.

Sometimes, she still couldn't believe it. Sometimes, she still expected Five to just... walk through the front door like he hadn't left. Except he never did with each passing day. He never would, something she had to constantly remind herself every time she passed by that cursed portrait hanging in the living room.

Ben, however... it was easier and it was hard.

For Five, he'd left them- left her- and to this day, she never knew if he was lying in a ditch somewhere or if he was well and okay in some far off land. She never knew what had become of him.

She knew what became of Ben though.

She'd seen it when her sibling carried their brother to the medical room with red-stained hands and red eyes.

_ (There had been so much red that day.) _

Vanya shivers. 

That day.... she didn't like to think about that day. She didn't want to think in general and yet, whenever she closed her eyes, Ben's pale face was all she saw. So, so pale. Red plastered across his face, on his shredded clothes, and on his ripped skin-

_ No.  _ Vanya gripped her long locks with tense fingers. A twinge of pain stabbed at her scalp, but she ignored it and dug her dull nails into her tender head. Maybe if she tried hard enough, she could dig out the memory of that day. Maybe she could forget, act like it never happened. Maybe she could ignore it- the red and the paleness and t _ he insides that should be in _ \- 

_ (Maybe-maybe-maybe-) _

_ Ding-Ding-Ding. _

Vanya jerked her head up, startled at the sudden sound. 

Oh. It was only the dinner bell. She should go. She should get up. Dad would be expecting her and he never liked it when any of her siblings skipped meal times.

_ (And Ben wasn't here anymore to remind her to eat greasy, cold, chocolate donuts. He never would be anymore.) _

Vanya sighs. The sooner she eats dinner, the sooner she can go back to bed. 

Her body feels heavy as she slides off her bed. Her shoes  _ thud _ on the floor, ruining the silence that had long since become her acquaintance in the darkness of her room. Beyond her door, a symphony of stomps and steps accompany her sluggish footfalls, the  _ thud-thud-thud _ s echoing down the hall. Except... it was different somehow. Slower. Softer. As if...

Vanya cracked her door open. Luther and Diego were the first ones she saw. They were trudging down the hall, their shoes squeaking against the polished floors. At first, Vanya wasn't sure why the image was odd- and she couldn't really bring herself to try, at first- but then she noticed: They were walking.

In all her years living in this house, Luther and Diego  _ never _ walked side by side. It was always a race to get from one place to another, a competition to see who can beat the other. Now though, they looked like they could care less about racing. Or running in general.

Shoulder slouched and heads tilted towards the floor, Luther and Diego were an oddly, synchronized pair as they made their way down the stairs. Almost like they were dreading going to dinner.

_ 'Then again,' _ Vanya thought forlornly.  _ 'So am I.' _

She looks to the side. Allison's door is still closed. So is Klaus'.

She looks back towards the stairs. Then back again to the closed doors.

..Yeah. She didn't feel like going to dinner either.

When she gets to dinner twenty minutes later, she tells Dad it was because she was in the bathroom. In actuality, she was walking upstairs to the third floor, to a room with ships decorating the wall and a bookshelf full of books. To bedsheets folded and sitting on the bed, not in the same way as the other occupant of the third floor, but enough to tell her Mom doesn’t think this one’s coming back.

It hurts to see Ben’s room so bare, in a way that strikes as vaguely familiar but at the same time, empty. Lifeless. Barren. And it aches in the tightness in her lungs, struggling to breathe. In the pang in her chest, making each heartbeat  _ thump-thump-thump _ in a running pace in between her ribs. It’s the melancholy feeling of hollowness deep within her, past the ache and past the longing she feels when she passes Ben’s room.

It's still painful, still a startling shock, to mix the expectation of what she’s supposed to see to what reality is. That when she walks to the room, she still expects to see a teenage boy with dark bags under his eyes, lanky limbs, and dark hair reading by the window. He’d be reading  _ The Oddesy  _ because while the sea monsters resembled the beast slithering underneath his skin, he liked the mythology of it all. He liked to think the book, crinkled and old, held the answers as to  _ why _ he was the way he was.

But the room is empty and the bookshelves are bare. There isn't a person sitting by the window and no dark hair for the soft wind to ruffle. There is no boy. Just a memory and folded bedsheets.

She wonders if anyone else visits the ghost of Ben’s room like her, if they grieve for him just the same. If they except him to walk by the hall or laugh with Klaus or see him with a book in his hand. She wonders if they miss him so. If they ever find it hard to get up in the morning and sit at breakfast and try not to see another seat empty at the table or to stare, stare, stare at the room he lived being and remember… just remember…

_ (“How would you know, Vanya?” Diego’s fiery anger reminds her. His grief and anger and remorse. “How would you know? You weren’t on the mission.” _

_ You weren’t there. His brown, tear-filled eyes tell her that his snarl didn’t. You never are. _

_ And it hurts even worse because she knows he's right. She wasn't there and never is and because of that, even in the shared grief of her beloved brother, she can’t grief with them.) _

She wonders what's worse: grieving Ben or grieving alone.

She finds her answer staring at the empty, bare room and all she can see are yellow, fluorescent lights and greasy donuts and eating contest and  _ laughter _ . All she can remember is Ben and her, sitting in her room, sharing a cold chocolate donut.

She stares at the remains of what was once housed there for ten minutes. Then she hears the click of Mom's shoes and turns away to make her way towards the dining room.

Her childhood had never been one of honesty and talking always resulted in either fights or resentment. Affection was hostility and confusion and awkwardness of moving around each other in a way that told each of them they didn’t understand each other anymore. They hadn't for a long time. Not since those late-night donut runs all those years ago.

Luther, for as righteous as he showcases himself to be, carries on through his day with loud stomps and scowls etched onto his face. He shoves people out of the way, makes room for himself in the halls a way that speaks of dignity and superficial superiority. When he sits at dinner first. When he walks into Ben’s funeral first. But that was always Luther, Number One, the leader.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t seem to cry or even glance at Ben’s seat anymore; Number One is already over his teammate's death, knows it’s his fault, and is already working to make sure it doesn't happen again. She knows because, as she walks down the lonely hallways after dinner, she’ll hear from the stares the drifting grunts of Luther at their father’s homemade training facility.

Luther, for as long as she’s known him, has always been seen as Number one until it became apart of him; the expectations their father gave them becoming a core aspect of who he was. It’s easy to find out when anyone barely looks your way. So she knows how to see, how to be quiet and listen because that’s all she’s ever done her entire life: sit and listen and be present.

Maybe that’s why she knows that after those self-training sessions when she glimpses Luther coming up the stairs, she’ll see the redness in his eyes.

So that’s how she knows that while Number One is over his grief, Luther isn't over it yet.

Diego, though, is different in his grief.

He’s temperamental in the way a bonfire roars hot and he's argumentative to the point where even her father has to snap more than once; his disdain towards their father isn’t a secret but it isn’t exactly something outright either. But now, after Ben, his temper is a lot worse. She doesn’t see him a lot and her encounters with him are rare, but she can see the evidence in the way he storms to his room, shoulder slouched and frown permanently on his face. And sometimes, when her siblings come back from missions, she can see the black eye around Luther's red-rimmed eyes and the bruise on Diego’s face. That wasn't all though. 

Vanya flinches as another shout echoes through the halls. Her hand jerks to the side, moving her bow staff in the process. The resulting shrill is something akin to a car crash and Vanya sighs as she starts over the song again. The yelling sounds from a distant part of the house, her father’s blunt voice on par with the snarl of Diego’s voice.

She can still remember his words that day at the funeral. She can still feel the sting of his words.

_ (His words, however, don't hurt as much as Ben's absence does.) _

As for Allison… well, the two haven’t always been close-

_ Knock. Knock. _

The violin tucked under her chin shrills again, her bow staff once again jerking to the side in surprise. Vanya looks up, startled, and quickly puts down her violin to answer the door.

To say it was a surprise to see  _ Allison _ of all people there was, well, an understatement.

“Hey,” She said as Vanya stood there, frozen in spot.

"... Hi," Vanya mumbled, uncertainty beginning to eat at her. She didn't understand. What did her sister want? Maybe she forgot to say something at the funeral- but then, why to her? 

Vanya wanted to ask. Maybe she should ask. But what if Allison got annoyed again? Her fingers twitched at her sides, new calluses forming on her fingers. Maybe she shouldn't ask. After all, talking meant focus and Vanya, for the life of her, was having a hard time focusing today. how could she when all she noticed was Ben's empty seat? How could she when all she heard was his absent laughter? How could she when it was  _ him _ who told Allison to give her back her violin? How could she when all she felt was empty and nostalgic and _ because she really missed him and she really wanted to cry right now? But she couldn't, not in front of Allison.  _ only lead to crying and she didn’t want to cry right now. Never in front of Allison.

_ (Who knows, maybe Allison would leave sooner. She'd see her tears, curl her lips in annoyance, and promptly leave her there with only the quiet and the memories as her only company.) _

She could already feel something warm in the corner of her eyes. Yet, Allison didn’t seem upset or annoyed like she usually was. She just… sighed

“I know,’ She whispered as she fiddled with the doorknob. “I miss him too.”

How much? A part of her thought. How much? Does your heartache? Does it feel something akin to dying? Do you feel the rip in your heart, the hole left behind? Do you feel the longing? The ever-present agony to know someone you loved was once there is suddenly gone? To be able to do nothing but remember, remember, remember?

Another part said: "You do?"

Vanya stays quiet though. She always does.

Allison doesn’t say anything anymore. Just closes the door, but before she goes, she says “Diego didn’t mean it, you know? What he said at the funeral.”

Then she’s gone, and Vanya can only whisper to the quiet of the house, the echo in the halls: “Yes. Yes, he did.”

Then Vanya picked up her violin and played until bedtime.

She wakes up the next morning and the cycle repeats itself.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The normality of the house repeats, keeps going, never ends. 

The mundane life she had lived every single second of in this house is a constant motion, it keeps repeating and never seems to have any hint of stopping. She knew every nook and cranny in each room, every dust bunny in the corner and every notch in the walls, and she knew how many steps it took to get to the dining hall, the living room, the parlor, the bathroom, and the courtyard. She memorized the order of every defense card lining the walls and she memorized all the songs in her limited amount of music sheets. She knew how many cracks were in her ceiling- 1,687- and how many times Klaus has flickered on his lighter today. She knew all the dark hallways and all the sunlit areas. She knew a lot about this house and at the same time, she knew too much.

And what was worse was that nothing changed. 

After... Ben, Dad trained her sibling more, said they needed to “do better least the same fate befell one of them" and that the apocalypse wouldn't be so kind to them just because they lost a member of the Umbrella Academy. And then… well, she never saw her siblings much anyways besides at mealtimes. Her only companions were the same ones that she’d known all her life.

All the dust bunnies and crannies were cool, but they weren’t great conversationalists. The holes in her ceiling didn’t talk back nor did they tell her about the intricacies of their day. The books lining the shelves didn’t share any introspection to their stories and the characters they held, only words on a paper that stares back at her.

It reminded her just how small her world really was. How small it was compared to her siblings. And it made her feel more than sad and lonely, it made her feel  _ stuck _ . 

_ (It made her wish Five had taken her with him. Maybe then she would have not felt so stuck.) _

And it hurt because as much as she didn't see Ben much, she cherished it when he did. She liked it when he said good morning to her or laughed with Klaus or came back from a mission with blood dripping from his clothes. When the Umbrella Academy came home and the silence of the home was filled with the clambering of her sibling's return, Vanya would get up from her small hole in the world and glance out from over the railing.

Except today's mission was different. 

It started out the same; Luther and Diego would instinctively rush inside first, followed by a tired Allison, and then a slouching Klaus. Diego was already siding over to Mom, Luther was walking with Allison up the stairs, and Vanya waited.

Waited for the drip of blood, the tell-tale signs of a sniffle, the squeakiness of shoes on tile. But the sound never came, and Vanya found herself looking at an empty entranceway.

Never before had she felt Ben's absence so  _ strongly _ before.

Her heart panged, something sharp tugged at her chest, and that heavy feeling settled over her again. She stared at the tiled floor, glued her eyes to the front door, and tightened her grip on the railing because there was  _ something missing and it hurt.  _

No one was there-

The sound of footsteps echoed in the quiet entranceway and Vanya knew, without a second thought, who that was.

“Number Four,” Dad said, voice as booming as ever. “Enough dilly-dallying. You have more than enough studying to get done. You may be a disappointment for the Umbrella Academy, but I will not allow you to become dimwitted as well.”

Klaus didn’t look at Dad, just stared at the door with a hazy look. But when he heard Dad’s voice, he looked over and slowly laundered over to the stairs.

“Sure thing, Dad,” He drawled as he sauntered up the stairs and Vanya moved, old instincts taking over so she was hurrying to her door rather than looking like she was waiting.

She didn’t need to do that anymore, there was no need to. There was no one she was expecting to be there that was coming back. Only children she grew up with labeled as nothing more than family.

It made her feel lost. Made her feel empty with a smidge of heaviness and longing for something not there. It was a miserable feeling and one she was all too familiar with. The house wasn't the only thing that was constant. Loneliness was too. Especially in a house where you’re more than invisible, you're as an important part of it as the dust bunnies in the corner were.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t expect the knock that came at her door, followed by the knob turning. Maybe that’s why, for a moment, she could feel something other than the waves crashing inside her, cold and numbing. Maybe that’s why she didn’t object to Klaus faster- or maybe it was something else.

“Hey,” Klaus said as he poked his head in. “I-“

“I’m not giving you my violin,” The words flowed out of her mouth in a lazy way. Useless in the threat held in her words. Weak in hiding the mountains of her sternness.

_ (He wouldn't take her violin. Never again. Not after she just got it back Not after Ben just got it back.) _

Klaus blinked, stuttered and fumbled as he processed her words. And he did, eventually, if the crinkle in his eyes told her anything. “Um, no.” He mumbled, looking away for a split second that told her of the awkwardness still present from that long-dead confrontation. Time sure was a funny thing; it felt like it had happened years ago and yet, it only happened a few months prior.

_ (A few months before Ben's... accident.) _

Her heart sank at the reminder.

Vanya didn't ask why he was there. She didn't want to. not right now. Not when the urge to snap, scream, yell sang in her bones, that nostalgic feeling of anger she hadn't felt in so long. But, of course, getting mad would only make her tired thanks to her new prescription. So she settled for curling her lips into a frown.

Klaus shifted on her feet, uncomfortable in a way that he usually wasn’t. Maybe he hadn’t had any drugs to calm his obvious discomfort. Either way, Vanya just wanted to be alone and try to imagine herself in a simpler time. One where Ben wasn’t gone and under the ground. One where Five was scribbling in a notebook. One where the loneliness inside her didn't grow stronger with their infinite absence.

_ 'What a miserable night.'  _ She thought as she gazed out at the pollution filled sky.

“I saw you leaning over the railing earlier.” She turns her head at this and, for some weird reason, her face burns up. Her cheeks bloom red. Her hands twitch at her sides. She glances down and she feels her hair, oily and unbrushed, tickle her burning ears as her bangs swamp her eyes.

She doesn’t grace him with an answer, but Klaus never needed an invitation to not keep going. For he is, after all, eccentric even without the drugs pumping in his system.

“Dear ol’ pops was pretty pissy today, but when is he never. He never changes, that guy. Soulless old man he is,” Klaus laughed, and it sounded as high-pitched and frenzy as he looked. “It’s the same still, you know. Breakfast, lessons, training, then a hint of missions and if there aren’t any poor suckers for us to kill, then it’s mission training- or as Luther calls it “teamwork exercises”. Yeah, right. As if we were ever a team.”

He sighs, and it’s not loud and huffy, but small and silent. Sad. A ghost in the air and the only evidence it was there is the flutter of his hair; it was getting longer and unkempt at the ends. It reminded her strongly of Ben's hair; not unkept or curled at the end, but sticking out at all angles. He liked to tuck it in every now and then and sometimes, he kept a pencil there just in case his bangs got out of control- which was every day.

It struck a chord in her and an off-beat tempo to beat in her heart. It caused her to stutter in a breath. It caused a malfunction in her very core and she felt the aftershock of it all ricochet through her bones.

She missed him, she always did. But it was different to be reminded of it. Ben’s memory, at the sad look in his eyes and the red that coated his clothes after every mission. Even now, she still expected to see something vibrant to be dripping on the floor; the anticipation was always there, following her around. It came and it went; she felt it when she woke up in the morning, heavy and dull, and she felt it’s stab when she ate dinner and he wasn’t there. But then when she would leave dinner, alone as she always was- Allison and Luther running off and Diego talking to Mom and Klaus laughing about.. something- the heaviness would felt a little.. less...

Bearable.

But then it felt more real when her siblings mentioned him. When she heard Diego's voice booming down the hall. How Luther always looked around when her siblings were about to head off to training. And when Klaus would wait by the door, his feet automatically stopping by the door as if on instinct.

It makes it feel more real. It reminds her-  _ truly _ reminds her with the stab in her gut and the sucker-punch in her heart- that Ben's not there. And he’s not coming back.

_ (He never was.) _

She doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn't like to. She doesn't want to forget Ben.

_ (Not like she was with Five.) _

_ (She knew she was when she stopped listening making sandwiches for him late at night. When she stopped looking for that vibrant blue to flash before her eyes) _

Something warm crinkles at the corner of her eyes. She hastily blinks to clear the blurriness in her vision. The memory of Ben’s longish hair and Klaus’ glazed eyes. She blinks away the memories that feel more like a ghost and not an old friend and pushes through the pain in her heart.

“Klaus?” She says because she wants to know. She wants to talk to someone. She wants more than anything  _ not _ to cry right now and she knows she will when she's alone again. “Why are you here?”

Klaus blinks and looks at her as if snapped out of a daze, his eyes slowly swerving around the small space that was her room. 

“Well,” He drawled, either ignorant of his- both- of their distant attention or trying to ignore it for awkwardness sake. “You know, the old man still hasn’t even told the press about Ben.  _ ‘It was only a chemical explosion.’ _ And those poor ignorant fanboys were so  _ happy _ we were okay. Crying out our name, looking for a piece of paper for us to sign, and not even  _ asking _ about the one person that wasn't there. How shitty is that?”

Vanya spoke up then, uncertainty beginning to eat away at her. “Um, Klaus-“

“And you know what’ even worse- it’s that he cleaned out his room. Just- burned it all out in the garbage container last week, and… forgot about him. Like Ben was no more than a goldfish that died and slushed down the toilet.” Klaus' face was growing red, his eyes squinting, his head tilted down and- oh.

_ Oh.  _

“Klaus," Uncertainty made its’ home in her as the numbing, gaping hole had. "Are you-"

“He even took down all his books, and threw ‘em in with the rest of his stuff.” And she had never seen Klaus look so angry, so emotional. He was always smiling and laughing at everything and anything. And here he was now, broken and sad and angry and.. and… familiar-

“It’s stupid. He’s so stupid. He didn’t do any of that for  _ Five _ -“

The discomfort burst. Fell away from her skin and down into her gut. Morphed into something hot and heated and oh so different from the constant numbness of her life. Of pills and mellowness and heaviness. Of living in a house no one noticed you lived in except for the small closet that was her room and her only friends were a dead boy and a wandering, arrogant brother who’d left her, ran away, and…  _ and- _

“It's because Five isn't  _ gone _ gone,” She can't help but sputter out. "Not… Not like…”

_ Ben. _

Klaus looked at her, actually looked her, and it occurred to her then that maybe he wasn’t just spewing things off the tip of his tongue because he was sad. That maybe he wasn’t being emotional because of his grief for their book-nerd brother. That maybe, just  _ maybe _ , she was nothing but a mere wall for him to bark at. Something that didn't talk back, couldn't, because who would talk to ordinary little Vanya?

What secret could the forgotten seventh member of the Umbrella Academy ever spill when they didn't exist to anyone else?

It was familiar. And it sickened her. What was once something comforting and home, was now a sour taste on her tongue. A hard-to-swallow pill. A lurching in her stomach that had the fire burning out and the dark, cold, endless ocean inside her to sing as it pounded against the cage of her ribs.

Dark eyes blinking at her with that lost look in their eyes. Narrowed with a furrow in the brow. A crinkle of a frown on the lips. 

_ (Five used to do that, back when he was here and she was there and there wasn’t an ounce of sibling rivalry between them. Back when the concept of inferiority was still young; the numbers their father had given them at their birth were still labeled insignificant. Back to when little Number Seven was just learning her place in the household just by sheer name alone. _

_ Back when he was still a boy, not yet a superhero, and she was nothing but meek little Vanya and she asked him, wide-eyed, why he looked so mad.  _

_ He had stormed in that day- whenever that day was, it was slipping away further and further until it was just ‘that day’ and nothing more- with a furrow in his brow and a canine of a tooth peeking out from past pulled back lips.  _

_ And she, happy to have him- anyone, someone- come and see her after her long hours practicing her violin- scales today- had put her instrument down and gave him all her attention. _

_ Her twelve-year-old shoulders ached, her back ached from the stiff new posture, and her fingers tingled in pain. Her eyes felt a bit heavy from staring at her music sheet for so long, but she ignored the sting in her eyes and looked at her angry brother and said “What’s wrong?” _

_ It was a slow transition from the huff he gave to the agitated pacing the small length of her room _

_ “He said I was a naïve child,” He fumed, the only audience being her. “He said I was stupid. That I wasn’t ready to be a superhero and go out into the field. He said I was weak and useless- do I look useless? Is jumping through time and space ‘weak?’ No! He doesn’t get to call me weak, not when he’s can’t do what I can.” _

_ His words are thorns and nails, his sentences lashes and whips, and his rants are raging wildfires. His anger burns and burns and burns for hours, so Vanya knows even before he came into her room that she’ll be here a while. _

_ And she’s fine with that. If not for the very real presence of a sibling there with her, someone who won’t brush her aside like Allison or scowl at her like Deigo or awkwardly brush past her like Luther or flat-out ignore her like Klaus. And she knows they love her- they’re a family and that’s what families do- but it’s different when Five visit and vents speeches full of frustrations only for her to hear. It's nice.  _

_ It’s nice, those little moments where Ben isn’t drenched in blood or Five isn’t stuck in his own head. Where they can be themselves and not training to be a superhero. _

_ It's nice when Ben comes into her room before bedtime to recommend to her a new book. It's nice when Five helps her with math homework. It's nice when all three of them are in her room; Ben reading at her desk, Five leaning against the wall with a notebook in hand, and Vanya playing one of the many, simple songs Dad had her practicing that week. _

They were few and far in-between moments, but Vanya cherished them. She preferred them to when Dad kept them in the training for hours on end.

_ She found out long ago she didn’t like those days; she learned early on how lonely a house could be with a constantly-busy robotic mother and a semi-distant monkey for company. It’s unlucky to be born under mysterious circumstances, only to turn out to be nothing like the dazzling stars that are her siblings. It’s something sadder to watch her family do amazing things while she was nothing more than a beating heart and a body made of flesh and bones. _

_ So sitting here, listening to Five ramble on about how their father is ‘a a bastard’ and an ‘old hag with nothing to live for but their accomplishments’ is nice. She doesn’t mind nodding along and listening to his raising voice. She doesn’t mind his pacing back and forth over her floorboards, his shoes still dirty from whatever training Dad had them do. _

_ This is enough. _

_ “Maybe he just doesn’t want you to get hurt?” Vanya asks, voice soft compared to his lashing tongue. Right when Five pauses to take a breath. _

_ He pauses in his pacing... _

_ And gives her such a dazed look, like he had forgotten who he was ranting at, what wall he was mentally beating up. He blinks, once, twice, before the fire sparks back to life in his dark eyes and he snaps, with less heat this time, that ‘I have superpowers that exceed far beyond his weak, body’ and ‘what can he do that I can’t?’ and on and on as a fire does. _

_ And she repeats to herself: It’s enough. _

_ It’s enough to have him here, ranting and venting. _

_ It’s enough to have his soot-stained shoes mark up her clean floorboards and the olf, ratty rug Allison had given her as a hand-me-down. _

_ It’s enough to take and take and take his frustration, his words, his overwhelming passion so fierce in a life full of blandness and boredom. _

_ It’s enough to withhold her internal silence so he can have an hour of expression _

_ It’s enough. _

_ It is. _

_ Even when Five stomps out her door minutes later, the gears in his head turning and his mind whirling, leaving her with nothing but a slam of her door and a grumbled “bye." Even when she sits in the silence, alone again. Even when she picks up her violin with trembling hands and aching shoulders and sore back and the burning memory of his dazed expression.) _

But it’s not enough now.

Not when Klaus is looking at her with that same, distant expression. Almost like he forgot she was there. Almost like she was nothing but a part of this lonely house. Almost like he was talking to one of the thin walls surrounding his room.

And it’s not enough. It’s not now, and she’s sure- and it hurts- that it wasn’t enough then either. It makes her sick to think about it; her memories of Five felt like a vivid dream than a reality. And like a memory, it felt hazy, but the vividness of the trepidation of Five’s temper- she was always nervous, she still is- reminds her it was real. That he had paced on her floorboard with soot-covered shoes and that he had helped her on her math homework when she was struggling and that he always waved goodbye on his way past her room.

He had been here, but he wasn't’ anymore and Vanya wanted to keep that nostalgia filled with warmth. But it’s getting harder, and the gaping hole inside feels ever-expanding and never-ending; it’s the constant numbness of her bitter pills personified inside the feeling in her chest.

It’s a reminder that Five’s memory was an ache rather than a small piece of warmth. And Vanya, more than anything, didn’t want the same to happen to Ben’s memory.

“Why are you here, Klaus?” She asked, distantly. Like she wasn’t the one controlling her mouth, but she could feel the words slide off her tongue all the same. Simple. Short and sweet.

And Klaus, with his distant attention span and his boastful laughter and his kleptomaniac tics and his chaotic presence, blinks at her. Quiet. Subdued. Forgetful.

It's funny. She's used to being forgotten, and yet it still hurts.

Why did it still hurt?

_ ('Oh Vanya." Ben's words whisper her ear. "Oh, Vanya, Vanya, Vanya...') _

“Um,” He says, slowly. Hesitantly. Startled. “I… um, Well, why wouldn’t I come to see my dear sister. Sweet Vanya. You know, you sounded great earlier. The violin- you’re a master at it-“

“Klaus-“

“Keep it up and thanks for the talk, which I would love to continue, by the way, but-“

“Klaus-“

“-I really have to go. Bye!” And then he’s gone, as sudden as he arrived and it leaves her feeling disoriented. 

She saw him at breakfast the next day, picking at the wheat toast Dad had put her siblings on, and not once had he looked up to say hi. Not that she expected him to, not with his red-rimmed eyes she knew wasn’t from crying, but still, it leaves her staggering.

Confused.

Doubtful in what to do. What to say. What to think. Like the world had spun her on her heels and left her wheeling around blindly, staggering in the present. She never got an answer as to the way Klaus visited and he never told her.

_ 'Maybe it was for grief.'  _ She thinks to herself. _ 'Maybe he just misses Ben so much, he needs someone to talk to. Even if it is me.' _

_ But he can just summon him back _ , She counters to herself.  _ He has Ben in the palm of his hand. He has someone always there. _

_ (What about Five? She thinks again. What if he was there, with Klaus, all this time-) _

Vanya picks up her fork and eats. She finishes her breakfast and readies for the day. She goes to her lesson and scratches her pencil on her Russian worksheet. She goes to her room and picks up her violin and plays and plays and plays.

She stampers down a block on the lingering though with the grace of a falling deer. A dying antelope. A tumbling fawn.

She stumbles and stutters and grapples with the feelings in her chest. With the sensations so unfamiliar and new and not there before because she's never had to. Dad always called her emotional, made her take the pills routinely, and yet, it doesn’t take away the ache in her heart, the heaviness in her bones, nor the wash of something sad droop at the thought of a page flipping in the library or a blimp in the hallway.

In the end, she finds an empty room. In the end, it’s just her.

Her siblings still go on missions, a few months after Ben’s death, and she still stays home. They still fight, Klaus still pops something special in the storage of his sock under his bed, and she still feels the stab of pain on her fingertips from the steel strings of her bow.

And when she plays, she still expects… something. The distant laughter of Klaus and Ben echoing through the halls. The sound of Five’s scratchy voice snapping down the hall. The telltale sign of a knife embedding into the wall and the sounds of a tear in the fabric of space. She glances around her room and expects the door to be open- for the clambering, frantic stomps of shoes on polished flor and a tapping of a pencil on a notebook- but all that greets her is silence.

Always silence.

_ (She wonders, for the briefest of moments, when she’ll stop hearing sounds of people long gone. When this raging storm inside her will go away.) _

_ (She wonders if she’ll slowly forget Ben too, of his small smiles and his messy hair. Of the way he slouched when he read and the passion in his eyes when he talked to her about a book. Of the laughter he let out when he and Klaus switched all their Dad’s tea with the bush leaves outside and the crinkle in his eyes when he did something particularly mischievous.) _

_ (She wonders if she’ll slowly forget about that too just as she had with Five’s memory. She wonders if the same sensations of lingering pain will remain long then soon after. She wonders when she will feel something light and not heavy) _

_ (She wonders and wonders and wonder) _

_ (What if- what if- what if-) _

She wonders and feels and thinks with the mindset of a stuttering, broken record player.

And when she picks up her violin, she plays Phantom of the Opera like one too; broken and messy and out of tune.

Just like her.

Then, one day- someday, she forgets the days- when her siblings leave for a mission in Mexico, she tries to ignore the quiet stomps of Luther and Deigo as they rush out of the door. Of Allison hastily putting on makeup as she rushes outside. Of Klaus strolling through the halls, his eyes nowhere and everywhere at once.

_ (She thinks, for a second, maybe he sees Ben.) _

_ (But then she sees his pale skin. His red eyes. And she dismisses it.) _

And then they’re gone. No stomping of shoes running outside, seeing who can make it to the car first. No Luther and Diego aggressively arguing on the way to the car. No Allison rolling her eyes and making eye contact with her. No Klaus picking his teeth with Diego’s mission knife and no Ben to nervously look at him as he does so.

It’s only a tense, muted silence. And then there’s just her. As there always is.

Until Mom breaks the cycle, that is. And not in a good way.

“Vanya dear,” Mom greets her. “I have something to ask you, if you don't mind.”

And Vanya never does, not in a place so empty and lonely. So she nods.

Mom smiles at her. It’s all plastic and fake looking and the sunlight bounces of her face in an odd way. Dim.

“It seems that the mission will be… quicker than the previous ones, so your father has requested a treat for your sibling.”

Vanya blinks. A treat. It's been a while since the Umbrella Academy had gotten anything remotely sweet. Maybe.. maybe they did a good job this time. Her siblings hadn't been... performing as well as they should have. Those were Dad's words, of course, but it was also his words telling Vanya to.... get treats? 

“Aren’t they still in Mexico?” Vanya asks, voice soft.

Mom’s smile falters and Vanya stills at the oddity in it. That’s never happened before.

“Of course,” Mom says. “But there was a… situation with your siblings and so the mission was deemed a failure. So your father requested a treat to cheer them up, especially Klaus.”

Vanya blinks again. That… that’s not right. Dad rarely lets them have outside food and cookies are a rare treat. Plus, the trip from Mexico is still a long while- then and back. Surely the donuts will be soggy by the time she gets back.

_ "Maybe he wants to cheer up her siblings? In his own way?" _ She asks herself, but the sediment doesn't mix well with the image of her father's disappointed eyes.

Mom places a hand on her shoulder. “That won’t be too much to ask, yes?”

Mom's hand is... oddly cold. She feels the weight of it on her shoulder, painted nails lightly pressing into her shoulder. Vanya has the urge to shake it off. She has the urge to say no, and for the life of her, she can't explain why. She can't explain the trepidation of her mother that never left her nor the unease she feels whenever she meets Mom's eyes, the feeling that had been there since her faint illness a year ago. Yet, she has been feeling  _ off _ ever since Five's leave and Ben's... absence. Maybe her nerves are just getting the better of her. Maybe that's why Dad has been upping her dosage again. 

Yeah. That must be it. Besides, her nerves were always too much. It's the reason she was put on medication in the first place. 

It must be her nerves making her feel this way, nerves and the silence of the house. Both always tend to make her so uneased. Maybe... maybe some fresh air could do her good.

That's what Ben would want her to do, right? He was always nice like that, like that time he gave her half his donut when she missed dinner that one day.

Vanya's heart sinks at the thought of him. 

_ (He'd want her to help cheer up their siblings. He'd want her to go outside, get some air. He'd want all good things for them. _

_ Maybe... he even wanted to live to do so himself.) _

The house is quiet. Dead echoes bounce white noise off the empty walls filling the many hallways. Mom stands motionless by her side, red lips pulled into a plastic smile and unblinking eyes staring down at her. 

The very air is still, waiting for an answer to fill the quiet. Well, Vanya never did like the silence, so she grabs the doorknob, twisting and turning-

“Vanya?” She hears Pogo and she turns to see the old chimpanzee looking at her curiously. “Might I ask where you’re going? You know your father doesn’t like you outside when he’s not here.”

Vanya frowns. “Mom said Dad wanted treats for the others. That the mission went wrong and so they needed something.... to cheer them up.”

The sediment of it all is confusing and it leaves a sour taste on her tongue to speak about something so... uncharacteristic of Dad. He was all stern words and harsh rebuttals. Of short praises and cold disappointment. He wasn't one to have treats for a superhero team that had failed a mission so early on.

But if Mom said so, then that was fine with her.

_ (She couldn't bear to stay in her room right now. Not when she felt like crying still. Not when her hands ached from playing and her eyes felt heavy and tired. Not when sleep was so far away from her despite feeling so tantalizingly close by.) _

Pogo doesn't say anything for a moment. Only a slow nod. “I see..”

Vanya hesitates. Had... had she done something wrong? 

“Is something wrong?” She asks.

“No, no,” He says quickly. “Just…. Go on ahead. I apologize if I troubled you.”

And then Pogo is walking away, leaving the entrance hall and Vanya is.. confused. Puzzled. Maybe she had done something wrong- but what? 

"What's that look for?" Vanya turns her head to look at Mom, at her plastic smile and unblinking eyes. "Is something wrong, dear?"

"Um, no." She says, despite the uncertainty eating at her. "It's just... Did Dad not tell Pogo about the treats?"

The edge of Mom's lips twitch and the sight has Vanya startled. Her smile! She did it again- "No need to worry, Vanya dear. Everything is fine. Now, off you go. The sun is about to set and your father will be here soon."

Vanya nods hastily before opening the front door, still shocked at Mom's behavior. Something was wrong... maybe? She's not sure and she's not sure she  _ wants _ to know. Her nerves are on the fritz enough as it is, she doesn't want to add any other uneasiness to the equation. 

_ (Maybe Five would know what was wrong. He was smart like that.) _

The sunshine feels warm on her skin, the sun bright in the sky. The wind brushes against her skin, cold and chilly. Few people are out today; Strangers chatter on the sidewalk, newspapers and briefcases clenched in their hands. Cars drive by, colors of red and blue and gray passing by her in a blur. Exhaust emits from their rusty pipes and when she breathes in the world around her, it smells of gas and smoke and burning rubber.

Huh. Maybe she has been inside for too long. She must have if she wishes to be back home again, to a place full of white noise and lonely rooms. But Dad asked for treats and she doesn't want to disappoint him. She never does.

She finds the donut shop quickly, her feet leading her on a path she never forgot, even after a year since she had last been here. Years since her siblings had dragged her here, in the dead of night with nothing but a twenty-dollar bill and childish excitement. 

The door rings as she steps inside. It’s funny how, even in a year, the store hadn’t changed much. It looks the same as it did her brief visit and years back when Luther and Deigo still talked, when Allison looked her way, when Klaus wasn't so awkward around her, when Five was here, and when Ben wasn't  _ dead _ .

The light is still flickering above her, yellow fluorescent light illuminating the shop in an ugly yellow glow. The tables are semi-filthy with stray napkins and plates full of donut pieces. The smell of coffee is strong, but it smells weaker; stale. The woman at the counter looks as vibrant and polite as she takes Vanya’s order, but she can see the wrinkles present under her eyes and the gray hairs shining like a beacon under the flickering light above from her blonde hair.

There aren’t as many people here and she finds herself taking a breath as she looks around the shop. A couple sits in a booth on the far side of the shop, conversing over cups of coffee. A little girl and her tired mother get donuts, the little girl smiling and chatting as her mother looks at her with an air of exasperation. It's a familiar sight. A  _ very _ familiar sight. 

A random thought pops in her head, one where she's playing her violin with Dad as her audience, the same exasperated, disappointed gaze looking down at her. 

Vanya blinks. 

She doesn't like that thought, so she immediately away. There’s an old man on the far side of the booth, a coffee steaming at his side and a newspaper shielding his face. Another man sits next to him, eating a jelly donut.

“Hello. What can I get you today, sweetie?” The tired waitress asks her and Vanya finds the answer automatically falling past her lips. It may have been a while since she'd been here but she could never forget her siblings' orders. Not when it was so tightly bound with the memories of late-night donut runs and laughter. Back when things were good and Five was here and Ben was...

“Two jelly-filled with glaze, and a raspberry-filled with sprinkles, and two-" The familiar, automatic words freeze on her tongue because that wasn't right. Not anymore. "...And  _ one _ chocolate donut."

One. Just one. Not two.  _ One _ .

It's funny how in the little moments, Ben's absence is articulate. Like how cold she feels all of a sudden. How the lively chatter of the establishment dies away, and the buzzing of flickering lights becomes swallowed by the white noise filling her ears. How, suddenly, it's hard to breathe and her hands feel clammy and her chest feels tight, like someone's squeezing her lungs and her heart and rattling her ribcage. How the world loses focus and the yellow lights lose their color until the whole world feels dark.

Dark, like the hallways at home. Quiet, like the nothingness filling the empty halls. Painful in the same way as the time her father was yelling for Mom and the door was in splinters on the floor and red was splattered on the floor and there was  _ so much _ _ red _ and it was on the floor and on her sibling's clothes _ and caked on Luther's arms as he held Ben's- _

"Here you go, sweetie." __ A voice rings out and the water in her ears drains away as she looks up, startled. 

Words are suddenly too hard to speak. Air is too hard to breathe. Moving is too hard to do.

Then the smell of donuts fills her nose, greasy and warm and sweet-smelling, and it's easier then to grab the bag from the waitress' hands and hand the twenty-dollar bill. 

“Thank you,” She says softly- breathlessly- and then she’s whirling around and exiting the shop.

The bag feels heavy in her hand. The sunshine burns her skin, the wind too chilly and fluttering her long hair. Her footsteps fall onto the concrete sidewalk outside the door and the chatter of people and cars greet her ears and it sounds so  _ loud _ to her.  _ Too loud. _ She expects the sound to never end, to constantly live and vibrant through a long, dark narrow path. But the sidewalk is long and the world is vast; the echo drowns in the sea of noise around her.

She should be getting home now. Mom might be wondering where she is and Pogo would be worried.

Her siblings would probably be wanting treats as soon as they got home; it always did wonders in cheering Diego and Luther up and it made Allison less ignorant of the family around her. And Klaus, well, it gave him something to eat and less likely to have that dazed look in his eyes.

And if treats were involved, Dad wouldn't be lecturing her siblings for long.

So she should really be getting back home.

Like right now.

_ 'You don't want late. What will Dad think?" _ Her consciousness tells her, and its enough to make her move one foot in front of the other-

-And stumble right into another person. Vanya bumps into them with a garbled " _ oof _ " and stumbles backwards. The wall in front of her lets out a startled huff and Vanya snaps her eyes open because that's a  _ person _ she bumped into.

"Watch it, kid." A man snaps, jelly donut in hand and- oh. He was the one in the shop.

"Sorry," She apologizes, timidness surfacing as she feels her gaze drop down and- another oh.

Because the bag isn't in her hand anymore, it's on the ground. The donuts are scattered across the parking lot.

She barely hears the man leave with a ' _ hmph _ .' She barely hears him walk away. 

All she hears is the rustling wind and honking cars. All she feels is the cold wind on her skin and hot sunshine on her back. All she smells is car exhaust and strong coffee. All she sees are jelly, chocolate, and sprinkled donuts on the ground in front of her. 

Tears prickle in her eyes, warm and wet as they trail down her cheeks. Her face feels hot, red burning on her face and ears. Her hands feel clammy and sweaty and they're trembling, shaking, and Vanya...  _ Vanya _ ...

She wants the donuts back in the bag. She wants to go home. She wants to go to her room. She wants her siblings to be home. She wants their clambering footsteps and bickering voices and laughter to fill the silence. She wants Dad to be proud of her. She wants Five to come home. She wants  _ Ben _ to be home. She wants... she wants...

She wants to not feel so  _ lonely  _ anymore.

Vanya's feet feel unsteady underneath her and she stumbles to sit on the sidewalk. It's cold underneath her.

If only she could have that.... If only she could dream...

But she's learned long ago that wishful thinking as useless as she is. That doesn't mean she doesn't want though; that doesn't mean she doesn't hope. It's all she has at the end of the day- that and her violin. 

She thought she had Five. She thought she always did, but these years have taught her wishful thinking means nothing in the face of reality and the world could be mean. She first learned that fact when she never received any powers. She'd learned it again when Dad had excluded her from the Umbrella Academy. She remembered it when she was reminded time and time again that Five was never coming back, and it makes her feel like a fool to make peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches for so long.

Another truth: He'd left her. 

Left her with nothing but his memory and the ghost of his presence.

Then Ben started to hang out with her again and for the first time in a while, it felt so nice to have a family- someone- there. Except, she forgot how cruel the world could be, so she was reminded yet again that little Vanya couldn't afford to be wishful because she had long since known about her place in the world.

That didn't mean she liked it.

So here she sat. Here she was, looking at pieces of donuts scattered on the sidewalks and lodged in between the concrete with weeds and trash while tears streamed from her eyes. Here she cried, while something red and whelming flickered to life inside her. 

For the first time, Vanya admits something to herself: she really hates living at home sometimes.

She hates coming home to cold hallways and silent rooms. She hates coming home to an empty closet-sized room and echoing hallways. She hates dinners eaten in silence and math she can’t solve. She hates her sibling's angry stares and short tempers. How their eyes pass her up every time. How her fingertips ache and her arms are sore from playing and playing and playing when she knows no one will listen to. Most of all, she hates the lonely third floor; the folded blankets and bare sheets. The notebooks tucked into dresser drawers and no one sitting on the desk and the books once inhabited the bookshelf gone from their perch. She hates how Mom asked her to get her sibling's donuts and that, for the life of her, Vanya couldn't say no. She hates that she hates to disappoint people even when it feels like that's all she can do sometimes.

Lastly, she hates her place in a household full of more special, more important, people.

She hates and fumes and rages internally while tears stream silently down her face. Why can’t she be more than nothing in that house? Why can’t she, just for once, stop feeling so weak and small and invisible all the time? When was the last time someone talked to her? Actually listened to her?

Was it when Five was there or had she ignored all the little things of his obvious temper and egotistic rants and annoyed mood at her interruptions? Or was it before then, when her siblings didn’t hate each other and Luther and Diego got along and Allison talked to her and Klaus laughed with her and Ben was there.

She doesn’t know- and she finds she hates it. She finds she loathes it. She despises it. She… she….

Vanya grips the edge of the concrete in a white-knuckle grip, her vision blurry. The donuts mock her from their place under the sun and Vanya wants to smush them, stomp on them, and let them rot in the sun.

_ (She wants to cry. She wants to feel something other than the loose apathy she had clung to every time she stared at the silent hallway. Or the aching disoriented haze in her eyes every time she went to eat dinner and stared at the two empty seats.) _

Her father’s ever-impending disappointment looms over her head. Her mother’s plastic smile grins at her from behind her blurry vision. The silence of the house echoes in her ear as the wind rustles past her ear.

Vanya stares at the donut pieces and… and…

Someone clears their throat behind her. Vanya starts.

She whirls around and immediately, her mouth opens: “I-I’m sorry, I-“

Then she stops because there’s a bag in her face. A greasy bag smelling of sweetness and sugary frosting.

She stares. Blinks. And then looks up.

The old man from earlier is standing by the door, with the same bag of donuts. He looks at her, disgruntled, before looking to the side. “Here.” He says gruffly, pushing the bag in front of her and she…

She stares. She opens her mouth, nothing comes out.

The man fixes his tie and readjusts his heavy briefcase. “I saw the idiot stumble into you so…. Here.”

Vanya stares at the bag gripped in a tight fist before hesitantly taking it from him. The bag emits warmth, telling her it was just taken out of the kitchen. When she opens the bag, the smell of fresh baked goods and sweet frosting, slightly soft from the donut's warmth, hits her. Six donuts greet her.

Two jelly-filled with glaze, a raspberry-filled with sprinkles, and... two chocolate donuts.

Vanya looks up. The old man doesn’t meet her gaze but he doesn’t move from his spot by the door.

“How did you….”  _ Know _ is the unspoken word not passing her lips.

“I was right by the counter when you told her your order,” He says. “So, you know, quit... crying and take the damn bag already.” The old man huffs and Vanya…

Isn’t sure what to think. On one hand, it’s odd he remembered her donut order, but it’s oddly… nice. This old man didn't need to go buy her donuts again, but he did and that was  _ nic _ e. She couldn't remember the last time someone had actually thought of her in a polite sense. Her siblings are sporadic with their social time together and usually, Vanya isn’t even aware they ever do hang out anymore. The only tell-tale sign was the sound of shoes clambering down the halls late at night, the whispers echoing down the halls. It’s been a while since they’ve laughed like that. It was nice to hear it- but also depressingly lonely to know she wasn’t invited on their late-night rendezvous.

Vanya looks back down at the bag. Wait..

“There are six in here,” She says, but it comes out more questioning than anything because she had gotten four.

The old man merely shrugs and shifts on his feet. “I just picked a few at random.” He’s favoring one leg over the other and Vanya shifts on her seat on the cold concrete.

“Um,” She asks hesitantly, unsure of how to ask or what to even do. “Do you… want to sit down?”

To be honest, she wasn't sure why she'd ask in the first place. The old man looked like he wanted to be anywhere other than here, but he looked like he was in pain and, well, Vanya thought she'd ask. He'd been nice to her, after all, so she'd thought to at least return the favor with the offer.

The old man gives her a furrowed stare. Vanya shifts her hesitant gaze on the concrete. The donut pieces on the ground are sitting on the hot concrete look oddly sad underneath the relentless heat of the sun.

“I’m afraid I can’t spend long here,” She hears the old man say. “My associates don’t like to be kept waiting long.”

Vanya nods, and a strand of her hair falls into her face. “Sorry.” She says softly. There’s a huff and a shift of feet. 

_ 'He must be leaving already,’ _ she thinks and for some reason, it makes her frown. Well, it was nice to talk to someone, even though it was only a minute. But still, it was nice; her Dad got to talk to ambassadors and famous people and fans and reporters were always frequently outside their home looking for the Umbrella Academy. The only people she talked to were Grace and Pogo.

Thinking about it now, it seems sad. Then again, her life was always a tragedy; a bitter disappointment. And it had started as soon as she was born.

There’s a presence at her left now and then the barest of brushes against her shoulder jacket. It has Vanya’s head jerking up to see the old man… who’s now sitting a few feet away from her.

At her startled gaze, the man rolls his eyes at her. “I said I had to be somewhere soon. Not that I had to be there  _ now _ . Besides, these old bones aren't what they used to be anymore.”

Vanya hesitates. “… but won’t your…. associates be mad?”

The old man merely rolls his eyes. She doesn’t have time to ponder over his words before a napkin is flaunted in her face. “Here,” He says as he all but shoves the napkin in her hands. “You have something on your face.”

Vanya blinks at the napkin, hand automatically reaching up to touch her face and… oh. She forgot about, um, crying. Wet streaks drip down her eyes, warm and wet. Huh, no wonder the old man is being so lenient with her. She must look pathetic sitting here by her lonesome, surrounded by broken pieces of donut and weeds.

“Thank you,” She says, dabbing her eyes on the flimsy paper napkin. It’s terrible at actually drying away her tears but it does the job.

“So,” The old man asks as she makes herself presentable. “What are you crying for? Last I checked, the world is still green and the people these days are doing well.”

For some reason, the question makes Vanya look down. Her shoes stare back, shiny but dull. Worn, but pristine. There’s a half-knotted bundle holding her laces together on one and a loose bunny-eared knot on the other.

She should head home. Forget this whole thing ever happened; she was already an embarrassment colliding into that random guy and an old man caught her crying, no need to make her even more pathetic looking. She should say nothing and leave it at that. Besides, Mom said once never to talk to strangers because they could be a threat to either the Umbrella Academy or her father and she's pretty sure the old man next to her counts as one. She should leave and the hastily, put-together apology is already prepared on her tongue. So she opens her mouth and-

“My brother died.” Is what comes out instead, startling her. And it keeps going, rambling fueled by shock and embarrassment and whatever panic filtering going on inside her body. “Last month.”

And she hadn’t men to say that, hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but the words had just… tumbled out. Without any notice or lack thereof.

But her shock doesn’t last long as the old man hums. “Sorry for your lost.” He says, and it sounds sincere, oddly enough, in his gruff voice. So much so that Vanya tears up again. No one had really said that to her, the word ' _ Sorry _ .' It was always tense silences and ' _ no more of this pathetic sniffling, Number Seven.' _

_ Sorry _ . 

It sounds so foreign in her ears. And it sounds nice too.

“Thank you,” she says. Again. She’s saying that a lot today.

The old man must agree because he says, rather bluntly, “No need to thank me for that. It’s just words. Still, I know... I know what it's like to lose family and no one should have to go through that."

No one should. No one should look for them with every step they take and every meal they eat. She shouldn’t pick up a book and think of Ben. She shouldn't hear Klaus laugh and not want to hear another one. She shouldn't be leaning over a railing, looking for drops of blood dripping down a sunken form and wearied eyes or hear the red mark the pristine white floor. She shouldn’t- but she does and that’s what hurts the most.

To see him wherever she goes. It’s a sad cycle, to miss one brother and then lose another one years later.

But she doesn’t want to think about that now. It hurts too much. So she looks for words and finds: “I'm sorry about your family.”

The old man is silent for a moment.

“It's fine. It happened... a long time ago. It's just... me for now.”

Something in Vanya squeezes. “I'm sorry,” she says, and she means it. It was hard losing Five, it was worse losing Ben. She can’t imagine not hearing Luther and Deigo yell, Luther’s awkwardness, Allison’s rolling eyes and bossy voice, or Klaus’ obnoxious laughter or the annoying flicker of his lighter. Not hearing it on a daily basis…. It’s one thing to be ignored by your siblings, but it’s even worse to never see them again.

The old man sighs, short and irritated. “Stop apologizing.” He says shorty.

Vanya looks away. “I’m-“ She snaps her mouth shut. The old man sighs again. He sighs a lot.

The old man grumbles as he looks away.

The sun is near setting by now, the sunshine dying to a golden glow and the wind blows cold by her. There are fewer people walking around and less chatter in the air. The bird tweets are almost nonexistent. The cars are still honking on the road and gas is still evident in the air. The donut pieces are still resting in the weeds, the shadows rising up to cover the broken treats.

It’s quiet, save for the birds and the people and the cars. It’s not as loud and it’s not as hot and not too cold and… it’s nice.

“What was his name?”

Vanya blinks at the old man. “Huh?”

The man huffs. “His name. Your brother. What was his name?”

Something heavy and settles in her chest and the taste of sadness lingers on her tongue. “Ben.”

Ben, who loves to read. Ben, who gave her part of his chocolate donut because she hadn't eaten dinner. Ben, who had the courage to tell Allison to take back her rumor. Ben, who was polite and kind and nice and always said good morning to her but who also switched Alison’s lipstick with melted wax and had laughed about it with Klaus. Ben, who wanted to see the ocean one day.

“Hm. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Vanya hums. “Me too. For your family.” She couldn’t imagine losing all of them; she just lost Ben.

The old man snorts and she sees the hint of a smirk under his white mustache. “You already said that and it was a long time ago,” The old man pauses and then he says: “But thank you.”

And then it’s quiet again. But it’s not a bad silence. Not at all; it just.. is. The cars may be honking and the people are chatting, but the breeze is a soft sound in her ears and the birds melodious in their tone.

“I miss him.” She feels herself saying and she… pauses. She hadn’t meant to say that. She hadn’t meant to say anything. That’s too much to say. She shouldn't have said that. Stupid, stupid, Vanya-

The ola man hums. It sounds low and rumbling; not gravely and scratchy like his normal tone is. “Were you close?”

Vanya blinks. She nods. “I think so,” she says. She hopes so. “He liked books. And pranks. And chocolate donuts. And... and he liked it when I played my violin. What about you?”

The old man exhales through his nose. “Mine were a bunch of assholes and idiots all rolled into one. I couldn't stand them most days and I always thought I would be better off without them and I was right…. But that’s family.”

His words are annoyed and bitey but his tone is… soft. Sad. It sounds a lot like Ben did that one day in what felt like ages ago, blood on his clothes and flesh in his hair and that empty look in his eyes. She never forgot that look.

“I just… no one else seems to miss him,” She finds herself saying. And it’s a weird thing to do, say her thoughts out loud. “And no one talks about him anymore, but even… I just, don’t know anymore.”

The old man hums. “So what are you going to do?”

Vanya blinks. “What?”

The old man turns to look at her. “What are you going to do now? Do you have cotton in your ears?”

Tears blur in her eyes. Her chest aches. “What….” What was she going to do? What could she do? Her brother was gone and nothing was going to change that. "I don't understand…”

The old man huffs, and it’s annoyed this time. “Your brother is dead. Accept it and move on.”

And Vanya doesn’t understand. She doesn’t want to move on because moving on means leaving Ben and Five behind. It means losing the nostalgia of better times and days without loneliness. She doesn’t want to forget them. She doesn't want to forget Ben’s smile and his laugh and his kindness. She doesn't want to forget Five’s scowl or his smirk or his snarkiness and his short burst of laugher and the vibrant blue of his powers. She doesn’t want to forget the companionship at Five’s rambling or the tap-tap of a pencil on a notebook nor the warmth in Ben’s smile and the passion for his love of books. She doesn’t want to forget that- forget them. Then she’s truly, truly be alone.

And she… she…

“I can’t.” She whispers, the blurriness in her vision getting worse. The world is a kaleidoscope and the old man is a swirl of grays and whites and blacks. She can’t. She won’t. “I can’t. Because… because.. then I won't’ remember them anymore.”

The old man is quiet for a moment. Then, when she thinks she should just get up and go, he speaks. He opens his mouth, slow and hesitant, and she can see the hint of the annoyance from earlier dying into something much.... softer.

“I'm shit at this," He whispers in a way she's sure she's not supposed to hear, before he starts again. "It’s not forgetting them. You never will. It’s been years and I can still see my sibling's faces. Trust me, you'll never forget them. They never leave you. Never. In the end, the only thing you can do is... is live for them.”

_ Live for them.  _

He makes it sound so simple, this sad, old man. How can she do that? How do you live for someone that's not there anymore?

"How... how do I do that?"

The old man tilts his head, seemingly pondering what to say. "Well," He says gruffly, leaning his arms against his knees. "Is there anywhere he always wanted to do?”

Vanya's eyes widen. “The beach.” The word brushes past her lips like a faint breeze, softly and gently almost as if the word itself was as fragile as porcelain. “He always wanted to go to the beach.”

The old man nods. “Then what’s stopping you.”

“But I can’t. My dad-“

The old man snorts. It’s a familiar sound. “What’s the old man got anything to do with you? I say, fu-screw him. ”

_ 'He makes it sound so easy. _ ' She can't help but think. As if her Dad would ever take her siblings on a trip to the beach, let alone useless Number Seven. And yet, the longer she ponders on it still, the more she... likes it. Because Ben never did get to go to the beach, but one day... maybe one day, she could go for him. And maybe... she could invite the rest of her siblings. It wouldn't be the same without him though, but still, the thought almost feels.... not terrible. 

She could see the waves, feel the hot sand underneath her feet, feel the cool water on her skin, and taste the salt from the vast ocean. Who knows, maybe one day, she could tell Ben about it. It wasn't an impossible thought; nothing ever was when you were born into a family full of extraordinary people. Especially with one with brother could talk to the dead. Well, sometimes- but still, it wasn't completely impossible.

_ 'That's wishful thinking,'  _ Another part of her whispers. It  _ is _ wishful thinking, but Vanya had always had wishful thoughts. Not only that, but it's a  _ nice _ thought- one that makes something loosen inside her.

“Well,” The old man says, breaking her from her thoughts. “Time for me to go. My associates must be pretty pissed now. Fuckng corporation can stick it in their ass.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say.” She says meekly, watching as a grimace erupting on the old man's face as he stands up. 

“That’s why I said it,” The old man says and he grins. It's a feral thing, full of mischief and arrogance. It's a familiar sight.

“Wait,” She calls out just before he walks away. “What’s your name?”

The old man blinks. “Eh. Nobody important,” He says. "Just an old man who wanted a decent cup of coffee." And then he’s gone, walking down the sidewalk and out of sight.

Vanya stays there for a moment, basking in the late summer heat. The wind is still cold against her skin. The honking cars are still loud in her ears. The donut bag in her hand smells of grease and sugary-sweets. It doesn't feel so bad though, not anymore. 

Vanya looks back at the empty parking lot. The sunshine is a goldish yellow spilling on the concrete and in between weeds, the bright ball of light above hanging low in the distance. The donuts on the ground are covered in the shade now, cold and sad in the small pile it makes on the sidewalk in front of her. Funny enough, though, Vanya finds she doesn’t mind as much now; the sadness she’d once felt, the bitterness, it’s still there but it's not bad.

It’s not bad.

That’s when Vanya jolts up.

Oh shoot, she forgot about the donuts! She  _ really _ hopes Mom isn't going to be too upset with her.

Vanya doesn’t hesitate to speed-walk home, her shoes annoying _ tap-tapping _ on the ground just like everyone else's feet; their clambering footsteps loud against the solid concrete below them. She practically runs through the front gate in her haste, pushing the front door a little more forcefully than she anticipated. The front door slams against the wall with a loud  _ bang _ . Vanya immediately changes.

Crap. She really hoped Dad hadn't heard that- but that's just wishful thinking again. Of course he heard that. Yet, as Vanya waits stiffly by the door, she realizes: she doesn't hear anything.

It’s quiet. There are no clambering shoes running down the hall. No annoyed voices loudly asking for donuts. No stern voices asking where she’d been and why she was taking so long. There's nothing. No one. Only…

“Vanya,” Grace says as she appears around the corner of the living room, a duster in hand. “Whatever took you so long? I was getting worried.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Vanya apologizes." I didn't mean to... I didn't think-" She shuts her mouth up, face burning hot at her muttered rambling. " Uh. Where’s Dad?”

Mom’s smile falters. Vanya's uncertainty deepens. Something's wrong with Mom. Something  _ had _ to be wrong, because Mom  _ never _ faltered,  _ never _ wavered. She wasn't built for that, so to see something like this happened meant anything  _ but _ good. Mom is as much of a fixture in her life as their father’s ruling presence was. She’s been there for as long as Vanya’s been alive and she had never seen her hesitate.

“Well,” Mom says after a moment. “It turns out there was a bit of a situation he had to deal with so he’ll be home at the previously appointed time.”

“Oh,” Vanya says. The donuts in her hand feel crinkly and warm in her clenched hands. “So… what about the donuts?”

There were five-no, six- donuts in the bag and her siblings weren't there to eat them. The donuts wouldn't be good by the time they got back in a few days. Or even week. 

Her short trip to the donut shop felt useless now. She felt useless now. The silence of the house agrees.

"So I... did all that for nothing?" The words sound so simple, but they feel like lead on her tongue, heavy and dense.

“I'm sorry about that, dear.” Mom says with an easy smile. “But Mr. Hargreeves is a busy man, you know this, and the Umbrella Academy is a very important fixture in the world. The work they do is very significant.”

"Now," Mom holding a hand out, the smile never wavering on her face. "Let me take that from you."

Vanya looks down. The donut bag is still clutched in her hand. “It's okay.” She finds herself saying. "I'll take care of it."

Mom blinks at her, pausing. The smile is never gone, a constant fixture on her face. "Well okay, dear." She says at last. "I'll be in the kitchen. Dinner is at six o'clock sharp."

Mom leaves as suddenly as she arrives, and it's not long before Vanya finds herself alone again. Alone with nothing but the ghost in the halls and the silence ringing white noise in her ears. As she always was.

She looks down. The warm bag of donuts is still clutched in her hand, gripped between a white-knuckled fist.

Vanya takes a breath in and out.

In. And out. 

In. And out.

In.

It's a funny thing to realize; things have changed, two of her brothers are gone, her siblings are distant, and yet, she is still her. Still the same. She's as much a part of this house as the wood on the floor. As the wind is to the sky. As her aching fingers are to her violin.

She realizes then that maybe things won't change. After all, Ben is still gone, never to walk down the halls ever again or read a book or laugh that bright laugh. Her siblings are still distant. Her father still looks at her with disappointment, and yet at the same time, doesn't look at her at all. She is still alone in this house.

And yet...

_ 'Is there anywhere he always wanted to do?' _

_ 'Then what's stopping you?' _

Things won't change The house will still be full of silence, her siblings would always feel more like a memory, and the only company she would have was her violin. But she could do something. Maybe. One day.

_ (Vanya was always a bit of a daydreamer.) _

But for now… well, life goes on. Her siblings come home. Vanya watches them walk through the front door from her perch by the railing. Mom greets them with cookies and a smile. Then, as Dad turns to give her siblings a lecture, she goes to her room before she's seen, picks up her violin, and plays. 

No one knocks on her door. No one calls for her name.

Everything seems the same, but she knows by the empty room upstairs that it isn't.

She still plays. She still does her lessons in the suffocating quiet in her room. She still keeps playing and playing her violin.

Then, weeks later, when she plays _ Phantom of the Opera _ for Dad, when he says  _ ‘That was adequate, but never take adequacy for spectacular,’ _ She finds that... huh. She thought it would feel... better. She thought  _ she _ would feel better.

Yet, life goes on the same after that.

Her siblings, as spectacular as they are, continue the downfall she can see they're headed for. It doesn’t surprise her when, after years of leaving and going, Klaus is gone. She knew when she never heard his flickering lighter in the late of the night and she confirmed it when he never came down for breakfast the next morning. She’s not surprised- she expected it- but it’s an odd thing to see him gone.

Then after that, Allison leaves, gone to Hollywood on a contract for five movies. She doesn't even ask Dad for permission- she never did. No one thinks  _ ‘How convenient.’ _ No one remarks how lucky that opportunity is. No one says a word, but Luther's expression morphs into something painful when Allison shares the news at dinner. Vanya thinks for a second he'll say something, speak up about being a ' _ team' _ and that the  _ 'Umbrella Academy needed her'  _ but _ h _ e just wishes her good look and that's that. Allison doesn’t look back, but Vanya knows how heartbroken Luther is.

Next is herself. 

She still remembers what that old man said that one day at the donut shop. She still remembers the sunshine, the bitter breeze, the stink of car exhaust and sugary-sweets. She still remembers his words-  _ What’s stopping you? _ \- and it gives her the courage to pack her bags and pocket what meager amount of money she had saved up from odd jobs and temporary part time jobs.

She shouldn't have been surprised to find she's not the only one that thinks so.

“Diego,” She says, bags in hand. “You too?”

Diego shrugs, his own knapsack flung over his shoulder. “Gotta start somewhere.” He says, but she can see the way he lingers near the living room, watching Mom dust the large portrait. This time, she does stop to stare at it.

Her first thought it: Huh.

The next one: That looks nothing like him.

And it doesn't. The serene expression on Five's face, the tilt of his chin, and his very posture- the boy on the portrait as his face but it wasn't him. It lifts a weight on her shoulder she never knew was there.

Leaving, she finds, isn’t as bad as she thought. Don’t get her wrong, it’s tough. She never knew how to pay mortgages and she learns slowly and painfully. She gets a small job at a book store. She finds a dingy place near the worse part of town. She doesn’t know anyone here, and she finds she barely knows how to  _ get _ to know anyone at all.

There are no more bedtimes and no more rules about talking during dinner and there’s no curfew and no awkwardness with her distant siblings. It’s a lonely existence, but it’s a freeing one. Just… one step at a time. That’s all she has to do. Just one step at a time. and that’s what she does.

She goes to work, comes back home, and plays her violin until her fingers hurt. She has a place for her violin on an empty chair, a small stand old and worn down. Her windows sometimes slide open. Her door creaks when it opens. The fireplace works half the time. And her neighbors are loud. And sometimes, when she passes by the electronics store, the tv on display on, she sees Allison on the front page. She’s as bright as she ever was as a child and it makes her wonder what happened to the rest of them.

As she stares at alleyways, she wonders where Klaus is. When she passes by a robbery or the police station around the corner, she wonders if Deigo is still mad at the world. When she passes by her old house, she wonders if Luther is as awkward as ever. And when she looks up at the sky, she wonders how Five is. She wonders how Ben would be doing.

It’s a lonely existence, being out on her own, but it’s nothing she’s not used to. She’s been alone all her life, what’s the rest of her life?

But just because she’s lonely doesn't mean she can’t choose what to do, because that’s something new she can do: choose. And choose she does.

She chooses to eat on her glass plates instead of plastic. She gets chocolate donuts every Friday after work. She goes to the library, gets a library card, and picks up an old copy of  _ The Oddesy _ . She goes to a nearby museum full of information about space she has no idea how to wrap her head around but she enjoys every minute of it. She even goes back to school- for music this time because it’s all she’s ever known and the one thing she knows how to do. That, and she hates math, so there weren't many options going for her. However she does it and soon, she’s invited to audition for the city orchestra. She makes it, but she’s third chair and she’s nothing extraordinary, not like Helen in first chair. But that’s okay. At least she made the orchestra in the first place.

That's enough for her.

And a year later, when she has enough money, she makes a trip to the nearest beach.

It’s a warm sunny day. The breeze smells like salt and humidity. The sand is hot and grainy. The waves are loud, crashing against the nearby rocks, and the seagulls cry in the distance. 

It’s nice. 

Ben would have liked it a lot. 

Before she goes, she spies a sea shell and she picks it up as a souvenir. Then she sees another one, and then two becomes three and three becomes eight and soon, she has an armful of seashells and textured rocks and she's seen more tiny fishes swimming by her feet than anything in her life.

Yeah, Ben would have loved it here.

Life goes on. The days get lonely. She goes to therapy, but only a few visits because it's expensive and she doesn’t have dear Dad paying for her anymore. She gets lonelier, the world gets colder, and she buys a typewriter. It’s stupid, she knows, but she’s never had a voice her whole life, much less had anyone to listen to her and, well, words are better than nothing. Except her words turn into a book and it’s on the shelves.

It doesn’t sell well, but it sells enough to make a profit. Which is a testimony to her whole life: Only just good enough. Her book goes on sale. She stays third chair. Her apartment, old and sad as it is, is bare except for the few things she loves: her violin on the chair, her dingy stand, and the seashell decorating the fireplace mantle.

Then Dad dies. Then she sees her siblings again. Then Five comes back, the apocalypse is mentioned and… well, Vanya’s not sure.

When Five appears in her living room, mentions her crappy windows, and tells her the apocalypse is in a little more than a week, it’s … a lot to handle. And she tries to; she makes them coffee, she listens when he describes it, and she waits. 

_ (It's weird seeing him. It's weird seeing him rant, like a blast from the past. It's weird- but the scene bleeds nostalgia.) _

The end of the world... it's a lot to process. Five is Five though and he was never a patient one, and he's even less so now, but she gets him to stay. For the night at least.

And as she’s getting him settled on her lumpy couch, he spies her seashells.

“Hm,” He hums to gain her attention. “Nice seashells.”

Vanya smiles awkwardly. “Yeah. I, um, went to the beach. It was years ago though. I just... someone, um, told me once that life goes on and that I shouldn't… He said I should just... go there. So I … did.”

Five looks at her and for the first time, she sees something present in his eyes. Like for the first time, she’s surprised him and all his brain is thinking of is how timid, shy Vanya went somewhere as pleasant as the beach. And he says so. “The beach. You went to the beach?”

The implication, while frustrating and a bit sad, makes her lips quirk up. He really had missed a lot in that apocalypse world. “And I got a library card. And I went to the museum. And I got my degree, which didn’t involve any math whatsoever. And every other weekend, I get chocolate donuts.”

Five makes a quizzical noise. She knows he's trying to continue the conversation. He’s trying to listen and learn and it makes Vanya fluff up his pillow just an extra time more. “Sounds nice,” He says. “Nicer than the shit hole I went through. It’s good to know one of us made it out alright in the end.”

Vanya huffs, goodheartedly though. “I'm nowhere near alright,” She says. “I just went to the beach. I just thought… Ben would have liked it.”

Five hum and nods. Then he plops on the couch, shoes resting on her pillows. She resists the urge to knock them off and from Five’s tilted chin, she can tell he knows it too.

Maybe that’s why she opens her mouth again. Maybe that’s why she disturbs the comfortable silence, but she’s curious and, well, the future doesn't sound so great and the beach is nice. “Want to.. come with me? When this is all over, of course, and somehow the apocalypse is.. done. You should come. With me.”

Five is silent for a moment, and she wonders if he’s ever seen the ocean in his years living in the apocalypse. She wonders if he's seen the sun shine on the vast ocean, like twinkling jewels, or if he's felt the cold water, tasted the salt of the ocean, and felt the tiny fishes swimming by. 

She doesn't think so. 

“The beach, huh? I dreamed of seeing the ocean when I was a kid.” He says, as if he’s not 13 right now, physically speaking. “But then I stopped when the ash covered the sky and settled over the whole world with a constant cloud until it was all I could see in my dreams.”

Guess that answers her question.

She doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow. She doesn’t even know if her dysfunctional family can even stop an apocalypse, much less save the world. But she does know one thing.

Next time she goes to the beach, she won't be alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Umbrella Academy is pretty great. The characters and their relationships was something so intriguing to me to see on screen, and then to see grow, and it quickly became a favorite show of mine. 
> 
> I guess that's why I wrote this. I'm not sure, to be honest.
> 
> But here we are. And i've never been a quitter so here to the next chapter we go.


End file.
